


Rousing The Lion

by mirqueen



Series: Awakenings [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:16:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirqueen/pseuds/mirqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter refuses to be one man's pawn any longer. In finding his freedom, Harry realizes that Minerva McGonagall is far more than an inflexible professor and second chances are a privilege not to be undervalued. (AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface: Unbearable

Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of _Harry Potter_. It belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc.

A/N: To give fair warning, this series will not be completely book-based. I mean, for the most part I will be referencing the events from Books 1-5, but I am going to be adding in some elements from the movies as well. Also, I will be using the basic horcruxes/hallows ideas that JKR has in Books 6-7, but the way in which these ideas are executed will be different.

_**Chapter Numbering:**_  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be one number less than the link AO3 displays.

From what I have seen, Harry is a touch more thoughtful in the films than in the books (especially with Hermione) and he is more likely to be sensitive about things (like he is in this story). I will try to keep his characterization close to canon, but it will be a mixture of book-and-movie canon, so take it with a grain of salt.

The following chapter is quoted entirely from the book. (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Pages 819-822.) The only part of the quoted text that I edited is the following:

~~Original Line~~ : ”I shall see you in half an hour,” said Dumbledore quietly. “One… two… three…”

~~Revised Line~~ : ”I hope to see you in half an hour,” said Dumbledore quietly. “If I do not arrive after one hour, go directly to Madame Pomfrey. One… two… three…”

I think this scene sets up the plot wonderfully and is a perfect moment from which to deviate the rest of the story. Besides, I don’t imagine I could phrase Harry’s emotional condition any better than the lovely words of J.K. Rowling. Next chapter will be all my own writing, however. :)

> **Preface: Unbearable**

"Take this Portkey, Harry."

Dumbledore held out the golden head of the statue, and Harry placed his hand upon it, past caring what he did next or where he went.

"I hope to see you in half an hour," said Dumbledore quietly. "If I do not arrive in one hour, go directly to Madame Pomfrey. One… two… three…"

Harry felt the familiar sensation of a hook being jerked behind his navel. The polished wooden floor was gone from beneath his feet; the Atrium, Fudge, and Dumbledore had all disappeared, and he was flying forward in a whirlwind of color and sound…

Harry’s feet hit solid ground again; his knees buckled a little and the golden wizard’s head fell with a resounding _clunk_ to the floor. He looked around and saw that he had arrived in Dumbledore’s office.

Everything seemed to have repaired itself during the headmaster’s absence. The delicate silver instruments stood again upon the spindle-legged tables, puffing and whirring serenely. The portraits of the headmasters and headmistresses were snoozing in their frames, heads lolling back in armchair or against the edge of their pictures. Harry looked through the window. There was a cool line of pale green along the horizon: Dawn was approaching.

The silence and stillness, broken only by the occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was unbearable to him. If his surroundings could have reflect the feelings inside him, the pictures would have been screaming in pain. He walked around the quiet, beautiful office, breathing quickly, trying not to think. But he had to think… There was no escape…

It was his fault Sirius had died; it was all his fault. If he, Harry, had not been stupid enough to fall for Voldemort’s trick, if he had not been so convinced of what he had seen in his dream was real, if had only opened his mind to the possibility that Voldemort was, as Hermione had said, banking on Harry’s _love of playing the hero_ …

It was unbearable, he would not think about, he could not stand it… There was a terrible hollow inside of him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished. He did not want to have to be alone with that great, silent space, he could not stand it –

A picture behind him gave a particularly loud grunting snore, and a cool voice said, “Ah… Harry Potter…”

Phineas Nigellus gave a long yawn, stretching his arms as he surveyed Harry out of shrewd, narrow eyes.

"And what brings you here in the early hours of the morning?" said Phineas. "This office is supposed to be barred to all but the rightful headmaster. Or has Dumbledore sent you here? Oh, don’t tell me…" He gave another shuddering yawn. "Another message for my worthless great-great-grandson?"

Harry could not speak. Phineas Nigellus did not know that Sirius was dead, but Harry could no tell him. To say it aloud would be to make it final, absolute, irretrievable.

A few more of the portraits had stirred now. Terror of being interrogated made Harry stride across the room and seize the doorknob.

It would not turn. He was shut in.

"I hope this means," said the corpulent, red-nosed wizard who hung on the wall behind Dumbledore’s desk, "that Dumbledore will soon be back with us?"

Harry turned. The wizard was surveying him with great interest. Harry nodded. He tugged again on the doorknob behind his back, but it remained immovable.

"Oh good," said the wizard. "It has been very dull without him, very dull indeed."

He settled himself on the thronelike chair on which he had been painted and smiled benignly upon Harry.

"Dumbledore thinks very highly of you, as I am sure you know," he said comfortably. "Oh yes. Holds you in great esteem."

The guilt filling the whole of Harry’s chest like some monstrous, weighty parasite now writhed and squirmed. Harry could not stand this, he could not stand being Harry anymore… he had never felt more trapped inside his own head and body, never wished so intensely that he could be somebody – anybody – else…

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 1: Penitence

Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of _Harry Potter_. It belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc.

A/N: To give fair warning, this series will not be completely book-based. I mean, for the most part I will be referencing the events from Books 1-5, but I am going to be adding in some elements from the movies as well. Also, I will be using the basic horcruxes/hallows ideas that JKR has in Books 6-7, but the way in which these ideas are executed will be different.

_**Chapter Numbering:**_  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be one number less than the link AO3 displays.

In the letter at the end of this chapter, the  **bold words** are the parts that Harry wrote. The rest was written by Hermione.

> **Chapter 1: Penitence**

The portraits sat silent for a long while after the former headmaster had comfortably spoken his piece. Phineas Nigellus looked fully prepared to continue ranting in his cold, self-satisfied manner, but for reasons unknown to Harry, the old headmaster said nothing more. This attempt was not the only one made by the wizard. Many more near-speeches appeared to be on the tip of his tongue, yet every time he tried, something held him back. Other portraits began to notice the barely-held tongue of their fellow, as Harry vaguely noticed. Still, none said anything. And Harry remained standing there, eager to go, desperate to run until his legs tired out, desperate for some antidote to his debilitating guilt and grief.

How much time passed in this manner, Harry did not know. What he did know was that a _'click'_ startled him half out of his mind as he whirled around to face the source of the noise, brandishing his wand in the same moment. Dumbledore’s office door was opening slowly and silently, but for the click of the lock which he had undoubtedly just heard. The action unnerved Harry until a glance toward a clock, one which he didn’t remember Dumbledore owning, proved that the hour had ended. The headmaster had instructed him to seek out Madame Pomfrey once that hour came up.

"Ah, detained by the Minister as always," an unknown portrait sighed from behind Harry, but he paid it little mind. The door was open and he was free to run from this as he had wanted to.

Startled squawks escaped from several portraits as the green-eyed youth bolted skittishly out the door and down the already-moving staircase. Barely had the gargoyle slid aside a foot when Harry propelled himself through the opening and pelted wildly through the corridors. For the relatively brief time it took to run down to the hospital wing, his mind was almost as free and uncluttered as when he was on his Firebolt. But just as his body would catch up with itself at journey’s end, so would his mind. It was just not something he could bear. Instead of stopping in the doorway to the wing, Harry actually ran to the end of the ward, amazed to find Madame Pomfrey already in the beginning of tending to his wounded friends. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville; they were all there. No one else was, however; no Order members, no Ministry officials, no Hogwarts staff aside from the nurse…

"Mr. Potter!" she scolded indignantly to his sliding stop next to her, her eyes scorching him in her fury. "Disturbing your injured friends like this! Do settle yourself down!"

Harry ignored her point-blank and begged her, “Let me help, Madam Pomfrey.” Sirius’s fall tried to invade his head, but he pushed it away with worry for his friends, for whose injuries he was also at fault.

"Nonsense!" the mediwitch scowled at him, wielding her wand like a sword in his face, though he did not flinch back. "Set on a bed at once! I will see to you in a moment."

"Please, let me help," Harry begged a little more desperately. "It’s my fault there like this. I dragged them into this mess! Just let me do something to try and fix my mistake. Please!"

Whatever the witch was expecting him to say, it was clearly not that. Her mouth fell open in surprise and she stared for but a moment, before shaking herself forcibly.

"Very well, Mr. Potter," Pomfrey answered in a surprisingly soothing voice, turning to point at a greenish-tinged bottle with an orange tag which was lying next to some wet-looking bandages. "I have spread that potion on those bandages. Wrap them around Mr. Weasley’s arms just tight enough that they touch his skin."

Harry nodded quickly and rushed over to his best mate’s side, wasting no time in picking up the bandages and beginning to wrap them around Ron’s pale, freckled arm as Madame Pomfrey hurried further down the line of beds. The brain had already been removed from Ron’s body at the Ministry, no doubt. Great welts had taken over the skin on his arms in many places, but nothing else looked terribly out of place thankfully.

"What did that thing do to him?" Harry found himself quietly asking the mediwitch as she checked Luna over. The woman glanced to him, where he was wrapping up his best mate’s arms, and then back down to Luna.

"I’m not precisely sure of the in-depth details," she answered distractedly, "but its thoughts attacked him, at any rate. Thoughts take longer to heal than normal wounds, as I’m sure you have realized."

The inflection of the last phrase caught him off guard, but Madame Pomfrey did not look at him again. In spite of that, he could only imagine that she knew exactly what thoughts needed healing in his own head. He shook himself of the thought and focused on his friend once more.

Somehow, despite his pain and guilt, the task Harry had been assigned was almost soothing on his frayed and tangled nerves. He had to pay attention and concentrate closely so as to get the bandages to wrap just right, though he had no doubt Madame Pomfrey would later straighten them out with a simple wave of her wand. Moving around to Ron’s other side allowed Harry an unimpeded view of his other friends, though he only glanced up when he was sure he had a good handle on the wrappings.

Luna looked fairly well, save the fact that she was unconscious and may have had interior damage he didn’t know about, though Harry hoped fervently that the latter was not true. In the next bed, Ginny’s ankle was propped up on two pillows, still looking nastily out of shape, and she was also unconscious as the mediwitch began to rearrange the bones and work the injury into a trice. Beside Ginny, Neville’s nose was still horridly swelled and bloodied. They all looked pale, but mostly all right he supposed, and Harry breathed a tiny sigh of relief for this small favor as he finished the last wrap on Ron’s injuries and carefully set down the arm he held. Harry’s green eyes were now drawn most to the head of bushy brown hair in the last occupied bed, the one beside Neville.

Hermione was so pale she could almost have passed for a ghost. Sweat beaded her forehead and her breaths were too short for Harry’s liking. More frightening than these observations, however, was her torso. Her skin was not obvious through the clothing, but with the size of the gash in her robes and the seeming wetness of the fabric, he didn’t dare imagine anything less for her body’s condition. He dare not get his hopes up for anything less than the worst-case scenario…

But Hermione had to live. She just had to. Harry had been so horrified when the curse hit her. Nothing but fear flooded him as she fell to the floor in shock and just lay there, unmoving. How couldn’t he have screamed out in terror for his best friend? Neville’s level-headed check of Hermione’s pulse had only just kept Harry sane. Worried mostly for Hermione now that he could see how much worse off she seemed to be, Harry rose slowly and walked tentatively over to her side while Madame Pomfrey was putting Neville’s nose back in its rightful place on his features. Sitting gingerly beside the brightest witch of their year, Harry reached out a hesitant hand to lay atop Hermione’s still fingers. They were cold, her fingers, and Harry frowned deeply at the fact.

Moments later Pomfrey was standing over Hermione, too, and Harry could not watch as she healed his friend. He turned away with a small cringe, knowing this was all his fault and he could not blame anyone else for it. More minutes passed, with barely any sounds except for the mediwitch’s muttered spells and charms and the rustling of her robes.

"Come along, Mr. Potter," the nurse’s voices startled him as he turned around to face her, pleased to find Hermione’s robes now sealed and dried as if they had never been torn by that dreadful curse. "Into the next bed."

"Is she – will she – I mean –" Harry spluttered nonsensically as he tried to ask if Hermione would survive, tight eyes drawn again to her inert form.

"She will be fully recovered in several days, Mr. Potter," Pomfrey’s tone was indeed gentle as she explained, though firm as usual. "No need to worry. Now, into bed with you."

He allowed the mediwitch to check whatever small injuries he had sustained and took whatever potions she insisted on without complaint, settling into the bed that was next to Hermione. For some time, hours most likely, he just lay in the bed, mind rocketing back and forth over everything that had happened at the Ministry, except for that one space in time wherein he had lost his family. Pomfrey forced food into him at lunch, but otherwise left him alone until dinner came, where she plied him with more nourishment. The hours in-between were again spent in his less-than-happy thoughts. For that night, the mediwitch gifted him with dreamless sleep potion. He was almost greedy, gulping it down as though it were the last batch ever to be made. As darkness enclosed his sight, Harry wondered how he would survive the summer without it.

In the morning, the black-haired youth awoke slowly, disoriented by his somewhat unfamiliar surroundings; the white everywhere was at first disconcerting. He realized why they were so unfamiliar rather quickly, however; it was because everything appeared blurred beyond distinction. Groping on the side table to find his glasses on the corner, Harry finally put them on, looking to his left with surprise to see that Ginny, Luna, and Neville were gone from the wing. Ron and Hermione remained, both in the grip of unconsciousness in the same beds, three empty ones in-between them. Through the windows, sunshine filtered in meekly, pronouncing it as either very cloudy afternoon or very early morning.

Harry saw Madame Pomfrey bustle out of her office before she even spoke, but then he also noticed a half-concealed figure sitting in the room she had just exited. All he saw was what appeared to be a flash of black before the door was closed from his eyes and Pomfrey was standing beside his bed.

"How do you feel, Mr. Potter?" she inquired in the typical brusque fashion, waving her wand to diagnose his health for herself.

"Fine," he lied. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie, was it? Physically, he felt fine. Maybe a bit tired, but he obviously hadn’t had a very restful couple of days, either. Emotionally, though… That was something he didn’t want to focus on too much just then.

"Hm," Pomfrey was only mildly appeased, he could see that, but she didn’t press him. "Just rest, then. You need it still. It’s early yet this morning. Only six o’clock."

"Where are the others?" he couldn’t help asking.

"They are all in good health now," the witch answered businesslike. "Mr. Longbottom’s nose is good as new and Miss Lovegood is perfectly all right. Miss Weasley will be in the trice for a little while, but nothing serious. They’ve no need to stay in a sick ward, so I sent them on their way."

His retort that he was in the same boat died on his lips almost as soon as he made to say it. She was allowing him to stay for his best friends; he shouldn’t complain. Madame Pomfrey nodded jerkily, as if she knew what he was going to say, and swiftly retreated back into her office, shutting the door behind her. With a sigh, Harry tried to rise from the bed, but found himself weaker than he’d imagined. The teenager promptly fell back into the pillow.

In the silence that descended, Harry began to wonder over Dumbledore’s failure to return early that morning. The young man felt offended in way, sort of betrayed that his mentor did not deem it important to talk with him. Even after what happened to Sirius – No. He wouldn’t think about that today. He would wait until he could handle it, until the balloon of grief inside of him didn’t feel like exploding in one vicious burst. It wasn’t like he didn’t have all summer to think about it. Of course, that particular thought brought on more bitterness than he’d ever felt before. Another sigh escaped him, and it wasn’t until he heard someone else sigh for the second time that Harry jumped up, regardless of his weak energy. Whipping his head around to his two best friends, Harry could tell it wasn’t Ron. Ron was half-snoring and not at all sighing in any way. Hermione was a different story.

Although he knew she was not awake yet, Harry forced himself to rise and then immediately seated himself on the neighboring bed, reaching nervously for Hermione’s hand. It was much warmer than it had been the night before. Whatever Madame Pomfrey was doing, he was eternally grateful for it. Hermione sighed again in her sleep, but Harry regretfully noticed the half-pained roughness that tinged it. It would take much longer for his bushy-haired friend to recover than the others. Possibly longer than Ron, at least in the matter of easy movement.

Harry found that he was unable to leave Hermione’s side now, reaching up to gently brush her brown locks away from her face and leaving his hand there for longer than he ever would have before. She was just so weak and vulnerable right then, he couldn’t help himself from somehow soothing her, even if she didn’t realize it. He hated it and he hated himself for bringing it on her like this. She deserved a better friend than he was; a friend who didn’t lead into her such deadly situations without thought for her well-being. And of course, Hermione had been the one to realize just what Voldemort might be doing. She, who had found out the truth and tried to convince him of it, was the one who ended up hurt the most. He was so stupid for ever going to the Ministry! Rage at his own foolishness welled up inside Harry’s brain. Loyal, courageous, compassionate Hermione had suffered for his foolishness.

Harry rarely moved from Hermione’s bedside for the rest of the morning, except those times when Madame Pomfrey forced him back into his own bed with a glare that almost matched Professor McGonagall’s. Almost, but not quite. Harry suspected Madam Pomfrey admired his continued nerve and sincere dedication to his friend, but was resolved to have him eat meals, if nothing else.

Sometime before lunch earlier that day, he had actually fallen asleep for an hour or so, waking up to find the nurse tending to a wildly paranoid Dolores Umbridge, whose once-immaculate (albeit often-sickening) appearance was so disheveled she could have given even Mundungus Fletcher a run for his money. Leaves and twigs scattered in her ratted hair didn’t seem to want to come out and the shoes were missing from her bloated feet. Umbridge’s usual vomit-inducing pink outfit was now filthy in the physical sense as well as the mental. Harry could only guess that it was dirt and grime from the forest floor turning her clothing the color of mud and green muck. Scratches – some shallow and some rather deep – littered her skin extremely liberally, something Harry found vaguely satisfying after the words she had forced him to engrave on his hand.

The slightest sound that resembled a centaur’s hoof would send Umbridge careening into a pit of schizophrenia. Harry had accidentally dropped his wand on the floor while dealing with his lunch tray and the mild clatter, while miniscule, had driven the former High Inquisitor to a hysterical outburst that forced Madame Pomfrey to keep her unconscious more often than not afterward. Not that Harry was at all disturbed by this turnout; it was quite an improvement.

Night finally crawled its way across the sky, finding Harry once again sitting at Hermione’s side. Only this time, Pomfrey allowed it; in fact, she had encouraged it. According to the mediwitch’s diagnosis, once she had given Hermione another dosage of her many potions, his friend was supposed to wake up. A friend to be there would be a good idea, Pomfrey had said.

Harry sat in suspense as the witch gave Hermione her last potion, subconsciously holding his breath as he waited for those brown eyes to look upon the world again. It seemed an age before he finally got his wish.

Lashes fluttering delicately and rapidly against her still-pale skin, Hermione attempted to take a deep breath, halted in pain, and then let it out quickly. Madame Pomfrey performed some spell and Harry’s friend breathed much easier. Harry released a shaky breath of his own that he hadn’t realized he was holding in the first place, also easing up his grip on Hermione’s hand. Much to both his and the nurse’s relief and happiness, Hermione at last opened her eyes, blinking away the grogginess of such a long, uninterrupted rest. Brown eyes became clear, lucid, and alert after another moment.

"Welcome back, Miss Granger," Madame Pomfrey smiled professionally as she cast another diagnostic spell, but was plainly pleased that her patient was really on the road to recovery now. "You may talk with Mr. Potter for a brief time. No excitement. You are still healing."

Hermione nodded slowly, turning away from the nurse to catch Harry’s eye. As the mediwitch walked towards Ron’s bed to check on him, Harry could see the apprehension in his best friend’s gaze. The others were on her mind, of that he had no doubt, as was the outcome of the battle. A sting in the vicinity of his heart reminded him violently of the outcome, but he forced it away for the moment.

He waited for Pomfrey to go into her office and close the door before speaking. Seeing that she did, he sighed in some relief for their privacy.

"Hey," he finally said, keeping his voice quiet but smiling slightly. If his relief showed through visibly, then he couldn’t help that.

"Hi, Harry," she whispered, clearing her throat just enough to strengthen her voice somewhat. Her slight wince made him flinch guiltily. "How long…?"

"It’s Saturday," he answered the unfinished question. "A little before dinner time, I reckon."

"What happened?" she asked a bit fearfully, but bravely as was her habit, brows furrowed in concern.

"Luna was just fine," he answered perfunctorily, feeling a bit like a machine as he recited the facts the nurse had offered him throughout the day, "Neville’s nose is fixed, and Ginny’s in a trice for a while. Ron’s still knocked out, but the welts are healing as well as they can. He’s the only other –"

"Welts?" Hermione interrupted, looking a bit panicked, glancing to each side in search of their mutual best friend. Her gaze lingered worriedly on Ron’s bandaged arms once she found him. "What do you mean?"

"Where the brain latched onto him," Harry explained dutifully, feeling awful, "it left welts. It was attacking him with its thoughts, so Madame Pomfrey says. It’ll take a little longer for that to heal than a normal injury would, but he’ll be okay. She thinks he’ll wake up in a day or so."

'Oh,” Hermione sighed her partial relief, relaxing back into the bed. It was then, trying to avoid her eyes, that Harry realized he was still holding her hand in his own. Any other time, he might have blushed. “Are you okay, Harry? How did we get out?”

"I’m fine. The Order came," Harry dully reported, wavering in the face of reliving that moment… that awful, dreadful moment when he’d lost another member of his family. He tried his best to withhold the shudder that swept over him. Hermione at least deserved the truth about the other events that took place. She’d suffered for it, after all. "Neville and I were the only ones left conscious when they got there. We helped fight and then Lupin was trying to get us to leave…"

Sirius flashed before his eyes, but no words escaped him. Something stung the backs of his eyes, but he did not contemplate it long. He needed to divert his attention elsewhere or he would lose it.

"Voldemort was in the Atrium," Harry went on to say, leaving Hermione with furrowed brows at the abrupt change in scenery that he had described and the pause he’d taken. "Then Dumbledore came and they dueled. Voldemort vanished all of a sudden and then – then he – took over… I couldn’t – He just took control –"

"He possessed you," Hermione breathed frightfully, enforcing calm over herself that Harry fervently admired and wished he could emulate. "Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

"It was… like when my scar hurts, but worse. A lot worse." That was an understatement of gross proportions, but he ignored the fact for that moment in time.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione’s eyes were glassy from potential tears and Harry squeezed her hand comfortingly. "How did you get free of him?"

"I don’t really know," Harry confessed truthfully. Honestly, he had no idea what had made Voldemort break his hold. All the young wizard remembered was thinking of Sir— no. Not again. Not that. It was too soon. "But he was trying to get Dumbledore to kill me—"

Hermione gasped loudly in horror, holding her free hand up to her mouth while wincing at the movements she was making.

"Yeah," Harry mumbled with a self-deprecating shrug. "But then Voldemort broke away from me. I still don’t know why. And then Dumbledore sent him off with a flea in his ear. Oh, but not before the Ministry showed up at last. Fudge saw Voldemort with his own eyes. Can’t refute the truth now, not with all the witness that were there. Then Dumbledore sent me to his office with a portkey; he told me to wait an hour and if he wasn’t back, then I should come down here. He never came, so…"

He gestured at the room carelessly with his free hand, as if to say ‘Well, here I am.’

Silence overcame the two of them after a while and Harry was wary of the thoughtful look on his friend’s features, which he saw whenever he chanced glancing at her.

"There’s something you’re not telling me," she astutely observed, eyeing him shrewdly in spite of her still-weak countenance.

"What that’s supposed to mean?" He easily allowed his natural defensiveness to the fore, furrowing his eyebrows, which only caused her more suspicion. He turned away from her wise, keen eyes, unable to stand it as she stared up at him.

"It’s all wrong," she announced suddenly, biting her lip in anxiety. "You’re keeping something back and I’m afraid of what it might be. When you hold something in, it’s usually very bad or very stupid. Sometimes both. But right now… I think it’s something very bad. I wish it wasn’t, but… you’re so… _sullen_ , Harry. It scares me.”

The last three words were whispered shakily, finally causing Harry to turn around and face his best friend’s wide-eyed look. She was truly afraid of what he was withholding. All that did was enforce his belief that he couldn’t tell her about Sir— the reason he went after Bellatrix Lestrange, yet. Hermione was still rather fragile, so why get her upset when she’s still so unwell?

"You’re reading too much into it." Even as he said it, Harry knew Hermione would not be satisfied with such a response.

"Reading too much into it," she scoffed, waving his excuse away as if it were an annoying fly. Her wince was painful to see. "Don’t even try that, Harry. We know each other better than that, I should hope."

The dark-haired teen sighed heavily, but resignedly. “Not yet, Hermione. Just…” But he could only shake his head. He was not ready to say it. Maybe he never would be. He could barely think it now.

"All right, Harry," she sighed herself, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear and squeezing his hand with the other. "I’ll be here when you’re ready, okay?"

"Sure," he reluctantly agreed and they lapsed into silence. He tried once to pull his hand away, feeling a bit awkward, but Hermione wasn’t having any of that. Instead of arguing, he just settled a bit more comfortably on the bed until Madame Pomfrey corralled him back into his own.

Both he and Hermione ate little for their dinner, causing their caretaker to become a touch irritable for the rest of the night. Anytime Harry and Hermione attempted to talk, the mediwitch would bear down on them like a den mother. The quiet and stillness drove the two friends to sleep quickly, the last thing in their vision being each other’s eyes as the darkness encroached.

With more potions and Madame Pomfrey’s constant care, Hermione was able to sit up with real energy the next afternoon. Thanks to this progress, the nurse had even allowed Harry to go and gather some books and other things to keep the two of them busy after lunch. Harry was pleased to see his friend’s curiosity was sharp as usual and the two of them got into quite a discussion about Umbridge, once Hermione noticed her presence on the other side of the room. Well, if he was honest, Harry knew it was more of a whispered bashing than an outright discussion, but that was a technicality where Umbridge was concerned.

"I wonder how Professor McGonagall is doing," Hermione wondered aloud concernedly.

"Hopefully very well," he intoned bitterly. Not towards Professor McGonagall, of course. No, his bitterness was directed towards her cowardly attackers. The Head of Gryffindor had been jumped in a completely heartless and unfair manner. No, life was not fair, but the attack on his transfiguration professor was just asinine and proved how sick the Ministry was becoming, in addition to the other marks of insanity they had been partaking of.

It was no surprise to Harry that this subject had come up while they were talking about Umbridge. He was just as worried as Hermione was about McGonagall, but after the Ministry – well, his Head of House just hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. There was a twinge of guilt in his mind about that. McGonagall had, after all, been trying to save Hagrid when she was attacked. Plus, there were plenty of other things to her credit that should make him care about her welfare. Harry should have been worried about her more than he had been. He wondered if he could write to her…

It would give him something to do and Hermione would be pleased to add her own sentiments to it, he was certain. Ron probably wouldn’t understand the need, so Harry had no qualms about writing the letter while the redhead was still out.

"Why don’t we write Professor McGonagall?" Harry suggested rather suddenly, surprising even himself with how eager he was to do this.

Hermione looked up in shock, blinking owlishly for a moment before she shook herself from the confusion. “You actually want to write her a letter? A sort of… get-well message?”

"Exactly," Harry shrugged, not seeing the problem. Except that it was him suggesting it, of course. Suggestions like this weren’t really normal for Harry. There was just something about it that felt right, felt like the good thing to do. "She’s done a lot for all of us. And after trying to save Hagrid, she deserves a warm letter, don’t you think?"

"Of course!" Hermione burst with, still looking mildly stunned even as her excitement took over. "Do you think she’s still in St. Mungo’s? It hasn’t been that long…"

At that, Harry had to think for a moment. It had been approximately four days since McGonagall had been stunned. More like three, if you considered that it had been nighttime when she was attacked. No matter what he’d seen magic do, the teenage wizard did not believe that such a grievous injury would have healed in a mere three or four days.

"It’s only been a few days," he settled, "I’d guess she is… But I’ll ask Madame Pomfrey and make sure."

Hermione nodded as Harry rose from the bed and headed over to the mediwitch’s office. One knock and she was at the door, looking mildly peeved at him being up and about.

"S – sorry," he stumbled a bit on his words, nervous now that he was faced with her raised brow and demanding expression. "I – we wanted to ask… Is Professor McGonagall still in St. Mungo’s?"

"Why?" the nurse was immediately suspicious of his question, which only made him more nervous. He swallowed anxiously.

"Well, we – er – we wanted to write her a letter. You know, sort of a get well thing…"

The gray-haired witch was taken aback, but Harry must have said the right thing because her eyes looked glassy all of a sudden and a small smile actually took up residence her features.

"That’s very kind of you two," said Pomfrey quietly, apparently not wanting them overheard. "Yes, I’m afraid the professor is still in St. Mungo’s."

"How is she?" asked Harry just as quietly.

"As well as can be expected after such an experience," the woman sighed. "She won’t be leaving for a quite number of days. Although I’m afraid once she is awake, she will be fighting that decision adamantly."

Harry had to bite back a grin at the thought. No, he couldn’t imagine Professor McGonagall would allow herself to be stuck in the hospital for very long, if she could help it. Pomfrey didn’t miss his near-smile, but she only shook her head exasperatedly before adding in a very low voice, “I’m also afraid that her mail passes through a manual check. If you’d prefer the letter to arrive discreetly, I can hand it to her personally. I’ll be visiting briefly, later tonight.”

Pomfrey knew more than he imagined she would about his and Hermione’s idea. Certainly she understood their need for some measure of secrecy. He didn’t like the idea of someone reading the letter, particularly with so much publicity about ‘ _the_ Harry Potter’ going around the Wizarding World. If someone caught wind of him writing to his head of house, the press would go wild, he was sure.

"That would be great," Harry agreed gladly to the suggestion.

"I warn you, she may not even be awake to read it for a few days," the mediwitch cautioned him.

"We’ll just have to be patient," he agreed. It wasn’t like they had a choice in when the professor would heal. And besides, Harry was sure McGonagall’s patience would be far shorter than theirs in this situation.

"Let me know when you’re finished, then," Madam Pomfrey nodded once, back to her businesslike persona as she stepped into her office once more.

"Did you want to write it together?" Hermione inquired once he returned with his information.

Harry nodded his agreement easily as he bent to get parchment, quill, and ink from his bag, which he had retrieved on his trip to the dormitory earlier that day. He wasn’t the most eloquent of people in these sorts of situations. Hermione’s assistance would really smooth the letter out quite a lot.

He settled in next to Hermione on her bed, both their backs to the metal rods which stood as a headboard, and while he held the parchment on a book across their raised knees, Hermione held the inkpot where he could dip into it as he wrote ‘Dear Professor McGonagall’ at the top of the page.

"How should we start it?" Hermione asked quietly now, throwing a glance towards Umbridge’s side of the room. Harry followed her vision and was irritated to find the woman far more lucid than Madame Pomfrey seemed to have realized in her earlier check. The ‘High Inquisitor’ was definitely listening in about Professor McGonagall’s condition. Harry hoped, viciously perhaps, that the woman was sent to Azkaban for what she’d done. It was no less than she deserved for her treatment of the students and her attack on two professors, both of whom Harry was proud to know.

"Well," Harry settled to whispering to Hermione, to which she leaned in to hear him better, "we can’t mention the… _group._ ”

Immediately, Hermione caught on to what he was saying and nodded her agreement. They could not mention the Order in this letter, lest someone realize their Head of House was in it. Enough people had been outed for being apart of the group, they didn’t need another one recognized. Not that it wouldn’t be obvious, considering McGonagall’s clear alliance with Dumbledore, but caution was still an excellent plan.

"Still," Hermione whispered back, "we should at least mention what happened to all of us. I mean, I know Madame Pomfrey’s going to tell her about our condition, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it from us. Plus, I’m not sure that McGonagall knows we saw her being attacked. She might like to know that, too."

"That’s true," Harry agreed and then furrowed his brows in thought. Hermione likewise attempted to discern the best way of starting the letter.

Thirty minutes later, the two of them had created quite a nicely written letter that was kind – but not saccharine – in its tone and informative without being too detailed for public consumption. They had decided that last names were unnecessary. The names ‘Harry’ and ‘Hermione’ side-by-side were rather hard to misunderstand. Besides, after reading their essays for the past few years, Harry imagined the professor could easily recognize their individual script without any prompting.

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_

_Hopefully this letter finds your health much improved. What happened to you on Wednesday night was appalling. We fifth-years were taking our practical in Astronomy at the time and saw the entire thing as it happened. Everyone was horrified and Professor Tofty was completely outraged. Everyone was so worried about you in the common room after we got back from exams. Lavender and Parvati were in tears. We’ve heard nothing of your welfare since, so we decided to take the matter into our own hands._

**_I hope you’re doing a lot better, professor. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that, especially after defending Hagrid. He was bloody furious when you were hit. I’ve rarely ever seen him that mad. He knocked some of them out for what they did._ **

**_You have heard about the six of us students who went to the Ministry, I’m sure. We are all okay now, thanks to Professor Dumbledore and his friends, and also to Madame Pomfrey’s efforts._ **

**_I think we’ve said just about everything, but I just want to repeat that we hope you’re getting better and will be back to Hogwarts soon._ **

**_Sincerely,_ **

_**Harry**  _ _& Hermione_

"Perfect," Hermione complimented their joint letter with a sharp nod of approval and put it into an envelope which she then handed to Harry, who then took it over to Madame Pomfrey’s office door, and who then would give it to Professor McGonagall at St. Mungo’s.

When he noticed Hermione biting her nails upon his return, as if already awaiting a response, Harry just shook his head. Apparently, it was going to be a very long and tedious night.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 2: Contention

Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of _Harry Potter_. It belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc.

A/N: To give fair warning, this series will not be completely book-based. I mean, for the most part I will be referencing the events from Books 1-5, but I am going to be adding in some elements from the movies as well. Also, I will be using the basic horcruxes/hallows ideas that JKR has in Books 6-7, but the way in which these ideas are executed will be different.

_**Chapter Numbering:**_  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 2: Contention**

For a few hours after having given their letter to Madam Pomfrey, Harry idly wondered if Hermione’s nails had anything left of them to satisfactorily chew. She had been biting them almost the entire time, save those moments when Harry bravely reached up to pull her hands away for their own safety. To his surprise whenever he did it, Hermione looked at him sheepishly, but did not scold or glare for the intrusion upon her bad habit. Honestly, Harry had seen Hermione engage in far worse nervous habits, like leaving gouge marks on her face from clutching it fearfully during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Still, this one was bound to become a painful nuisance for Hermione if she didn’t stop soon.

All of this was while Madam Pomfrey was still present in the hospital wing. Harry hated to think what odd habits Hermione would jump to once the mediwitch actually left for St. Mungo’s. For that matter, Harry didn’t want imagine what levels of anxiety _he_ would come to. Who knew what news Madam Pomfrey would bring back? The best information the witch had was a vague guess as to Professor McGonagall’s condition based on her last assessment of the witch. Suppose McGonagall’s situation had worsened since Pomfrey last heard? It would be the kind of luck Harry expected for himself, but for his Head of House, he was uncertain how her luck played out normally. Generally, she appeared to have it all together, but Gryffindor recklessness had it limits…

Shaking his head to dispel the thought, Harry settled more comfortably on his bed. Hermione stared off into nothing, thankfully not biting her nails for the moment, although her fingers tended to twitch nervously upwards once in a while. Had the two of them not planned to be exceptionally well-behaved before Pomfrey left the school, Harry would have sat beside his best friend as a source of comfort, if possible. Comforting someone was low on Harry’s list of talents, yet he would have tried his best with Hermione.

Both of them started audibly – Hermione with a yelp and Harry with a sharp inhale – when the door to Madam Pomfrey’s office clicked open quite suddenly. From the blackness of the office’s interior, the witch herself stepped out in her usual medical garb, with the addition of a lightweight gray traveling cloak and the notable absence of her typical mediwitch’s cap. While the woman’s hair looked just as steely in color as her personality, it was somehow less austere without that stiff white cap topping it with such pristine precision.

Catching their gazes upon glancing up from the small bag in her hand, Madam Pomfrey barely restrained a roll of her eyes. Harry nearly grinned, slight though it was.

"I should have known you would ignore my instructions," she sighed irritably, hands on her hips in an eerily accurate impression of Molly Weasley. "Didn’t I tell you to sleep? You need rest, Miss Granger! And you, Mr. Potter!"

"I can’t sleep, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione tried hesitantly to explain, left hand at her teeth for the ritual nail chewing. Harry practically leaped out of bed to pull the offending hand away when he noticed it began to bleed, shocking both the mediwitch and his friend in equal measure. Realizing what had almost happened after a glance at her now-bleeding nails, Hermione turned pink in the face and gripped Harry’s hand fiercely enough that it turned white. Not that he cared at the moment; as long as it helped her.

Glaring at Harry for his abrupt behavior, Madam Pomfrey suggested acidly, “If you would be so kind, Mr. Potter, as to retrieve the cart with your dinner trays from the end of the ward?”

As Harry moved to obey the instruction, he gestured at Hermione’s fingers where they rested on his hand. Satisfied when Pomfrey swiftly pulled out her wand to heal the small injury, Harry walked over to retrieve dinner for him and Hermione. After a brief interrogation on the nail-biting habit Hermione had acquired, Pomfrey turned to another question. “And why is it that you cannot sleep, Miss Granger?”

"I’m so worried about Professor McGonagall," Hermione answered very sincerely. From where Harry stood at the end of the ward, he could tell she was biting her lip now instead of her nails. "That was such a terrible ordeal for her. And Ron… He’s still not awake and it’s been several days already."

Softening almost imperceptibly at the genuine worry in Hermione’s voice, Madam Pomfrey sighed resignedly before replying, “Mr. Weasley will be fine. His mind and body need ample rest in order to repair the damage done by the brains that attacked him. Time is the best medicine he can possibly have. If he were to wake up too soon, it could disable a complete recovery. So you will have to be patient. As for Professor McGonagall, I will be able to tell you more about her condition after I return from St. Mungo’s. However, I can tell you what I told Mr. Potter earlier…”

At catching a slight creak near his end of the ward, Harry’s attention was abruptly diverted from the cart carrying their dinner and also from listening in on the explanation he had already heard once. He looked sharply over at the only other occupied bed on that side of the hospital wing.

Fury coiled inside him upon finding Umbridge eavesdropping on the conversation, despite her seemingly immobile position. There was an incline to her neck and head that was too unnatural for a sleeping person. Using skills only a seeker possessed, Harry also noticed Umbridge’s eyes were only halfway shut on her upturned face. Deciding rapidly that he could one-up the great ugly toad all too simply, Harry chanced a look at Madam Pomfrey, who was still discussing Professor McGonagall’s health with a grim-faced Hermione. Taking his chances with the brief distraction, the young wizard did the one thing that he knew would put the toad back in her place.

Harry watched with a gleam of triumph when Umbridge began shrieking to high heaven at the sound of clip-clopping hooves; jumping up in her bed, smashing the water jar on her bedside table with a mad swing of her stubby arm, and batting away imaginary pursuers. Madam Pomfrey jumped a mile at the cacophony of sounds and hurried over to do what she could to calm the so-called professor, but Hermione stared wide-eyed only long enough to catch sight of Harry from the corner of her eye. He ignored her suspiciously narrowed eyes and happily rolled their dinner over between the beds they had been occupying for the past several days.

"What did you do?" Hermione hissed at him with something bordering on disbelief.

Shrugging casually without a shred of guilt, Harry quietly answered, “She was listening in. Thought I might just persuade her otherwise.”

"It’s no laughing matter for someone to be carried off by centaurs for days, Harry!" Hermione reprimanded him shortly.

"You can’t possibly defend that monster!" Harry hissed back, glaring angrily at the bushy-haired girl. "After all she’s done to everyone? That evil woman deserves to know what it’s like to be outnumbered and mistreated! Look at what happened to Hagrid and Professor McGonagall! That’s no laughing matter, either!"

Hermione opened her mouth to comment, seemed to think for a long moment about the situation, then clammed up with a chastised expression. “I’m sorry. I just… I guess I was thinking about how we got chased through the Ministry and… thought how I would feel being chased by a herd of centaurs. The conditions were a little… similar.”

Cutting off Harry’s heated response, she carried on hastily, “I know it was her own fault! What we were doing was different, I know that. And after all she’s done… sending those dementors after you, forcing Dumbledore out of the school, the blood quill, humiliating Trelawney and Hagrid, going after Hagrid with force, attacking Professor McGonagall, and then trying to use the cruciatus curse on you… Oh, Harry, I don’t know what got into me! How could I feel sorry for that vile woman? Even for a moment?”

Hermione became so distressed and teary-eyed that Harry hurried to get off of his bed and over to her side to reassure her. Thoughtlessly, he dropped his fork on the tray in his rush. Umbridge let out another loud shriek at the clatter and kicked her short legs rapidly in a strange imitation of running. Madam Pomfrey, who had almost gotten the woman settled, looked frustrated that her work had been for naught. That was the only thing that made Harry feel even slightly guilty about the situation: that the mediwitch had to keep putting in an effort whenever Umbridge lost it. Nevertheless, the young wizard felt great satisfaction at Umbridge’s actions coming back to bite her.

The best part about it for Harry was not her mad appearance, but the fact that waving her arms crazily at an invisible attacker ended with the toad almost knocking her own teeth out. The smack echoed in the near-empty hospital wing, and even Madam Pomfrey looked to be biting her lip to keep from laughing at the slip as she spelled something into the other witch’s stomach. Hermione snuffled out a strange sort of triumphant laughter, her tears evaporating entirely, and Harry snickered freely at what his accidental handiwork had accomplished.

Anymore attempts at eavesdropping and he would ensure Umbridge turned up at St. Mungo’s. Hopefully sharing a new room with Gilderoy Lockhart and the furry, barking Agnes. Just what that pathetic excuse of a witch needed. Neville’s parents deserved a room of their own, anyway, especially away from those two awful professors.

Thinking of Frank and Alice Longbottom brought Harry’s mood down to a very low place all of sudden. Poor Neville, having to live with his parents never knowing him or understanding anything around them. Losing his appetite immediately, Harry pushed his tray off to the end of the bed and sat back against the headboard, arms wrapped about his bent knees.

Catching on easily to his change of mood, Hermione pushed her own tray to the side as well. “What is it Harry?”

"Nothing," he mumbled uncomfortably. Hermione had already faced an emotional moment mere seconds prior. He wasn’t going to make her nearly cry again.

"Harry, you can’t bottle everything up inside," Hermione pleaded, albeit sharply, with him. "Look at how you exploded at the beginning of this year. It’s not healthy."

"Yeah, because I meant to be stuck in that house half the summer, with no one to talk to and no information to go on!"

Hermione’s mouth shut with a slight snap and she said no more. Harry turned away with little more than a grunt of dissatisfaction. Madam Pomfrey, meanwhile, had finally settled Umbridge back into her bed and stood at last to leave Hogwarts for St. Mungo’s. Glancing over at the two awkward friends, the mediwitch groaned vaguely and threw her hands up into the air at the abrupt change in their camaraderie.

"I’ll be back later tonight," she sighed tiredly. "Please attempt some rest."

Neither of them answered her plea, to which she stormed out of the main doors of the hospital wing muttering mutinously. Now Harry could have been wrong, but he would have sworn Madam Pomfrey grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “May as well be talking to a stack of bricks.”

Blinking a bit of his surprise away, Harry found his mouth twitching; he just wasn’t certain if it was laughter, irritation, or both that made it happen. Shrugging the strange feeling away, the young wizard focused instead on what he was going to do for the next several hours while he and Hermione were not on all that good of speaking terms. A lot of things could be ruled out such as their summer homework. Harry felt positive that he would need all the activity he could find this summer in order to keep his mind off of… No. He had already promised himself not to think of it yet. Now willing to accept any kind of mental distraction whatsoever, Harry searched through his bag until he found a reasonable pastime.

Imagining a bit gleefully what was sure to be Hermione’s gasp of utter surprise, Harry trudged up the book Ron had sworn never to read. _Hogwarts: A History._ Much as Harry had expected, not two minutes after he opened the book, Hermione let out of a weirdly strangled noise that resembled a cat whose tail had been trodden on.

"You said…" she started, voice quite croaky from shock, "You said you never…"

"Never read this book?" he asked blandly, allowing his green eyes to find their way up to her brown ones. "I think you’re confusing me with Ron. I just haven’t read it since the summer before first year. Where do you think I got the name Hedwig from, anyway?"

Feeling distinctly annoyed at her lack of faith in his intelligence, yet a little smug because of her shock all the same, Harry let his eyes fall back down to the page again.

By the time Harry thought her to be asleep, Hermione’s soft voice intruded upon the silence.

"I’m sorry, Harry."

Startled at the sudden sound, the boy in question looked up at her with questions in his eyes.

"I don’t mean to always shove you and Ron into the same mold," Hermione admitted, biting her lip. "It’s just that you so often agree with him. I mean, you’re both boys, after all, and you both love Quidditch, and… so many other things. You and I don’t seem to have the same kind of… interests, I guess."

"We both care about Hagrid," Harry inserted more kindly than he had been feeling for the past couple of hours. "I may not have the same… er… _intensity_ about house-elves, but I don’t want Dobby to go punishing himself and all that. We think kind of similar sometimes about puzzles and things. Have you noticed that? We… uh… well, we do have things in common.”

Honestly, Harry didn’t know what else to really list. For all their friendship, he and Hermione shared precious few interests on a large scale. He just felt comfortable around her most of the time and she had always been supportive. Like she had been when they went to the Ministry…

It was lucky that Hermione responded when she did, or else Harry didn’t want to think where his mind would have gone. “Yes, that’s true, Harry. But we’re usually on the opposite sides of things. You’re so geared toward action. I just don’t think that way.”

"Does that mean you can’t even try to see my side of things?" Harry asked, somewhat hurt be the insinuation that Hermione could not accept the fact that he reacted differently than did she.

"I shouldn’t have to change my views because you feel a different way," was Hermione’s suddenly heated reply. Again, Harry felt like he was getting lumped in with Ron’s tactless behavior.

"And I _should_?” Harry questioned incredulously, but he continued before she could insert her opinion again, “Why is it that your opinion should be upheld as the best one and mine should be treated as highly unlikely? I’m not asking for you to change your deep beliefs, Hermione, I just would like to know you aren’t trying to change _my_ deep beliefs to suit your own! Why can’t you ever accept that people think differently than you do?”

Newly incensed with Hermione’s hardheaded single-mindedness, Harry turned once more to the book in his lap, hardly able to concentrate anymore through his frustration. Surprised though he was, Harry was grateful Hermione restrained whatever comments she might have had. And he was absolutely positive she had plenty to say after his unexpected outburst.

Harry was beginning to get worried that his temper would explode on Hermione at the least opportune time. After all she had gone through since the Ministry, he had no right to allow such an event to occur. It was so hard, though, to keep acting like he wasn’t upset beyond reasonable conventions. Hermione still did not know about… about his… loss. If Harry’s current feelings of raw pain and helpless despondency in reaction to that very loss were any indication, she wouldn’t be likely to find out any time soon, either. Keeping Hermione in the dark, however, was a very bad idea. She would find out eventually, and probably in a far less… well, supportive environment. What would be truly terrible was if she found out in the _Daily Prophet_.

Again, though, Harry had to stop his mind from going too far. Thoughts of the newspaper articles, so obviously pitted against the innocent man who had been lost to him – no. That was enough. Gritting his teeth, the young wizard glued his eyes on the pages of his textbook. He didn’t even really know what he was reading; just kept on mindlessly running his eyes across the words on the page. Time seemed to go much too slowly. The black of night was endless, with not even a clock ticking nearby to measure the minutes as they crawled forward.

What might have been minutes or hours later, Harry started out of an awkward doze to find himself reclined in a most uncomfortable position, hunched forward over the open pages of _Hogwarts: A History_ and his glasses having slid down the end of his nose. Through the windows, only dark sky could be seen. As to what had woken him, Harry could not have fathomed, until a conspiratorial hiss from his left drew the boy’s jumpy attention.

It was Hermione, who looked to have been calling him longer than she wanted, if her frustrated visage was any indication.

"What?" Harry barely breathed, not daring to speak any louder out of pure instinct.

Hermione only had to nod once towards the front doors before Harry’s ears picked up on what she wanted him to know. Voices, at least two, could be heard at the entrance to the hospital wing. One, after a moment of hard listening, he found to be Madam Pomfrey’s. The other, far deeper than the mediwitch’s, he had difficulty zoning in on. At last, after leaning as far off of his bed as possible without falling, Harry finally recognized the second voice as that of Snape. Suspicious of what the two could possibly be discussing at that time of night, he rose from his bed and (quite against Hermione’s warnings) risked several steps closer to the main doors until the voices came in clearly enough to understand.

"—certain she does not need any assistance?" Snape was saying, tone more worried than Harry had ever heard it. He wondered who Snape was referring to.

"Do you honestly think she’d accept it?" Pomfrey countered exasperatedly. "The woman can barely sit up and already the staff are running scared when she so much as looks askance at them."

That explained everything, really. A slight grin crossed Harry’s face at the thought of Professor McGonagall terrifying the staff at St. Mungo’s like she did her students at Hogwarts. Although why Snape would be so concerned was beyond Harry. Didn’t they have a rivalry going on?

"All the same, I shall give you a message to give her tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind?" asked Snape.

"Of course I wouldn’t mind," agreed Madam Pomfrey. "Just don’t expect a civil answer."

"Hardly an expectation I would encourage," Snape replied dryly. If Harry believed the man had a sense of humor, he might have thought that was a joke of some kind.

"Will you be giving all the details to the Headmaster tonight, then?" the mediwitch inquired.

"I most definitely will be," the professor answered firmly. "As you well know, he is the only one who will keep her responsible for her own health."

"He is not the _only_ one,” Pomfrey argued, seeming to know something the potions master did not, “but nevermind that for now. I have four patients to look in on. Well, _three_ patients that actually mean something to me. That barbaric woman should have stayed with the centaurs, as far as I’m concerned. Anyone who could attack Minerva and Hagrid in such a fashion—”

The witch cut herself off so abruptly that Harry could only imagine her words would have become unfriendly indeed, had she continued. He was pleased to see that they agreed on that topic, at least.

"I could not agree more," Snape almost snarled, fury in his voice. The strength of his feelings about Professor McGonagall’s well-being shocked Harry. "Let us hope that _Madam_ Umbridge’s behavior is treated accordingly by the ministry, although one can hardly expect it to be with _Fudge_ still in power.”

"Don’t speak to me about that man," Pomfrey grumbled, swatting something in agitation by the sound it. "Ooh, the things he tried to claim before I spoke with the healers…"

"He was there?" Snape truly did snarl this time. "He dared to show his face near her room?"

"Tried to walk right in just yesterday!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed angrily, then forced herself to speak softer, "Thank Merlin the Headmaster was visiting. Nearly cursed that dratted man, he did. Not that I blame him."

"And your three patients?" the professor changed the subject, clearly unhappy with its current course. Here Harry listened even more intently than before.

Taking in a breath to steady her former frustration, the mediwitch explained, “Mr. Weasley is still unconscious. The brains in the ministry are not a harbinger of permanent damage, unless they remained latched onto a person for days, so all the boy needs is rest. Miss Granger, on the other hand, is thankfully awake and her body is healing rather rapidly, considering her condition when she arrived.”

"And you third patient?" The general congeniality of Snape’s tone convinced Harry that the man had no idea who the other patient was.

Sighing in a troubled way, Madam Pomfrey answered, “Mr. Potter has been a help, to be sure. Had he not seemed so terribly distressed I would have sent him off after the initial check.”

"Are you telling me that he is not injured in any way, yet is laying about under you care?" There was that hatred and disdain Harry had been assuming he would hear.

"On the contrary," Madam Pomfrey’s voice had become icy, "Mr. Potter offered to aid me in the process of healing his friends and has been a great help in securing Miss Granger’s emotional health in the positive. And as I told you, _if_ you have been listening, the boy was in great emotional distress. Now if you would excuse me, Professor, I shall check on my patients.”

The rapid staccato of her heels gave Harry all but a few seconds to practically leap into his bed, shove the textbook to the foot of it, and fake sleep the same as Hermione did. Not a second after their eyes closed, the door to the infirmary opened much less agitatedly than its matron had walked into it. Her heels clicked past Harry and Hermione with absolutely no hesitation and soon enough the door to her office opened and closed.

While Harry wanted to get up and ask about their letter, he knew better than to question it at that time of night, when they were supposed to be asleep and not know the mediwitch was back. Even more pressing, the young wizard felt distinctly like he was being watched. It was not a comfortable feeling, so Harry could only guess Snape was nosing in from the doors of the ward. Inching his eyelids open to a miniscule degree, Harry noticed that Hermione’s eyes were less than half open and staring right at the main entrance. Lifting his eyelids completely, Harry snapped as quietly as possibly to get his best friend’s attention, his body thankfully covering the gesture from the doorway.

Glancing over at him, Hermione shook her head in the negative to ward off talking, but gestured upward. The gesture was incomprehensible for a moment, until the bushy-haired witch dragged the arm she was laying on all the way up to her face and inconspicuously rubbed at her eyes as though she were tired. Slowly – with as little movement as humanly possible – Harry mimicked her movements, reaching up to remove his glasses with one hand and laying them on the corner of the bedside table. A subtle node from Hermione, who looked as though she was merely readjusting her head on the pillow, informed Harry he had done it without drawing attention.

By the time Harry finally fell asleep, Hermione’s eyes had been completely closed for quite some time and the feeling of being observed had never left him.

Bright light stinging Harry’s eyelids was the next thing he experienced, and unhappily at that. Groaning, the teenager turned to bury his face in the pillow beneath him.

"Wake up, Harry!" Hermione’s voice intruded on his dozing, her words annoyed and bossy. He did not deign his friend with an answer, but shuffled more comfortably on the bed.

"Harry Potter, don’t you ignore me!" she reproached far more loudly than before.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," he murmured into the pillow, covering his ears mockingly. " _You_ must be feeling better.”

"Come on," she snapped slightly, whacking something with what he guessed was a thick sheaf of parchment, trying to get his attention. Her voice turned excited in the next second, "We’ve got a letter from her!"

"What?" Harry flung his body up from its comfortable position, wide awake suddenly. Everything was blurry in spite of the glare from the windows, prompting him to grope for his glasses on the bedside table and slip them on. In the next bed, Hermione’s face was fresh and healthy-looking, not a sign of pallor about it. In her hands was a large, thick, unaddressed envelope. "We got one?"

"We did!" Hermione smiled, but winced vaguely at her too-quick move to gesture Harry over. "Madam Pomfrey said the professor wanted me to swear not to open it until you were awake, too."

"She knows you well," Harry shook his head, trying desperately not to grin a little.

"Shut up, Harry," she retorted with a roll of her eyes, waving him over with a much gentler movement. Quickly settling beside Hermione, Harry let his friend open the envelope in anticipation of them reading of the letter. To their surprise, the envelope was large for a very good reason; there were five more envelopes inside of it.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed quietly, pulling out the other three envelopes to read their labels. Confusedly, she and Harry found one addressed to the two of them, an individual letter for each of them, and two other envelopes addressed only with an _L_ and a _P_ , respectively. Sharing a puzzled glance, they both set aside their personal letters and set about reading the rather lengthy message for the both of them.

_Dear Harry & Hermione,_

_First and foremost, thank you for taking the time to inquire after my well-being. I truly appreciate your effort in doing so after what you both went through at the Ministry. My health is indeed improved from what it was a few days ago, you will be glad to hear. The fact that I am awake and writing this letter certainly must speak to that fact!_

Harry chuckled at the professor’s sarcasm. He had the feeling Madam Pomfrey had known about this particular sentence very specifically.

_Secondly, I must say I am thoroughly appalled that you and your classmates had to watch such a display of brute force and underhanded politics as Dolores Umbridge enforced that night. I must admit to some frustration with my own shortcomings, however, in not having my wand out in the first place. Do not make the same mistake I did! I have no doubt a certain vigilant wizard would be shouting at me for it, if he knew._

With the word vigilant included in the sentence, it did not take a genius to figure out the wizard their professor referred to was Mad-Eye Moody. Snickering and giggling for a moment at the accurate deduction, the teens read on.

_But now that is neither here nor there, I suppose. As to Hagrid’s response to the situation, I thank you for letting me know of it. He is a very loyal friend to whom I am lucky to be acquainted. Regardless my dislike of his oftentimes irrational and emotional behavior, I do appreciate Hagrid and his dedication._

_Ah, I also wish I would be returned to the school soon. Unfortunately, even I must admit that is something of a work-in-progress right now. Please, if you would, give my regards and gratitude to Miss Patil and Miss Brown for their tearful concern over my health. I have enclosed a small message to each of the young ladies in the larger envelope you received from Madam Pomfrey._

_Thank you both, again, for writing to me. The days blur together in this sterile prison cell and it is good to hear from the world outside. Even more encouraging is news from Hogwarts, which has most certainly become a second home to me over the years._

_I wish you both well._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor McGonagall_

"Well," Hermione spoke quietly, the letter still open in her hands, "that was far more than I guessed she might say. She was quite frank, wasn’t she?"

"Definitely," Harry agreed in an equally quiet voice, amazed at just how bluntly and amiably the professor had written to them. "I never expected that kind of letter. I mean, I was prepared to be satisfied with only a brief reply saying she was awake and on the road to healing. And a little note about staying out of any more trouble would have been normal, too. But this…"

"I know," Hermione nodded, face pensive. "It doesn’t seem like her to put her thoughts on paper so plainly for a couple of students, regardless of who we are. She is obviously a very private person. I wonder why she was so personal this time?"

"Maybe it’s like she said," he suggested thoughtfully, pointing at the words _sterile prison cell_. “She’s stuck in a hospital and by her own admission hasn’t gotten a lot of company. She’s probably in pain, assuming guilt for not being here to help us, and feels useless. Like how I did this past summer.”

Harry could definitely appreciate the professor’s position. As a matter of fact, he felt right sorry for her. Minerva McGonagall was a force of nature, quite honestly, and to think of her being out of commission was very odd.

"You’re right, Harry," Hermione sighed. "I’m so sorry about this summer, Harry. It must have been just terrible to be stuck there without anyone really there for you. And oh, poor Professor McGonagall. That sounds awful. I hate being stuck here, but at least I have a friend with me."

Their argument the previous evening seemed to have completely flown out of Hermione’s mind, from what Harry could tell. He couldn’t say he was unhappy about that, either. Arguing was such a waste when all they had was each other to talk to.

"Why don’t we read our other letters?" Harry mentioned, his curiosity growing by the minute.

"Yes, of course," Hermione agreed, eagerly picking up her envelope.

Moving back to his own bed, Harry just as eagerly opened his letter and began to read.

_Dear Harry,_

_My gratitude may seem to become overzealous, but I cannot help thanking you again for taking the time to write. You, of all people, have faced the greatest woes after the incident at the Ministry. For you to take such pains to worry over another in this difficult time is a sign of your character._

_In your grief, you may not want to hear the name of your godfather or even think it. It is painful, I know. I have lost loved ones, too. While it may hurt to say the name, I must do so all the same. Please forgive me if it is too much too soon._

Harry stopped immediately before reading any further. It was, indeed, too much too soon to think the name. Even hinting toward it was painful, let alone actually reading it with his own eyes. For some time he sat there, not daring to read any more, his heart pounding painfully in his ears and stifling thoughts swirling through his mind.

Something, though… _something_ wanted to push him onward, to make him read that name. There was some force, buried deep, that called to him and drew him to the letter again. Whatever it was, wherever it came from inside of himself, Harry forced it away viciously. He didn’t want to read anymore. How could she? How could Professor McGonagall have been so cruel as to say the name, even realizing that it might be of utmost pain to her reader?

In spite of his hurting, Harry could not find it within himself to be angry at the professor. He could hardly fathom why, though. It was not normal for him to withhold anger when he was disturbed. Usually he was willing to let it explode when it got to such a point. But knowing what McGonagall was going through just then seemed to stay his hand. The woman was suffering. And she was suffering because she had defended Hagrid. Harry simply could not be angry with her.

Whatever was in Hermione’s letter, she never said anything about it for the rest of the morning and afternoon. For this, Harry was glad, albeit concerned that she had read something too terrible to correlate to him. One fleeting thought, however, suddenly sent Harry panicking. Had Professor McGonagall informed Hermione of Harry’s loss? Was that why his friend was so quiet? Setting up far too quickly, Harry found himself meeting Hermione’s troubled gaze.

"Hermione?" he began to say, frantic, still gripping the message from his head of house.

"The professor didn’t tell me anything specific, Harry," she whispered, immediately keying into what had Harry so frazzled. "She only said there was something you couldn’t speak of just yet. I knew that, of course, but… I think I know what it is now."

"I won’t talk about it," she cut him off as he moved to speak again. "You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to. I promise I won’t ask."

This promise was more generous than Harry could possibly have imagined from Hermione. She usually felt that talking about things was the best way to handle every circumstance.

"Thanks, Hermione," he murmured, deflating instantly and dropping back onto the bed.

"Your welcome, Harry," she answered just a quietly. Something was rustled for a few moments and Hermione sighed once, then the ward was silent.

Judging by the light surfacing the room, it was early evening and a ‘good time for sleep’ as Madam Pomfrey kept telling them, but Harry didn’t bother trying to sleep. His mind was so full of thoughts that he finally understood what Dumbledore meant about the pensieve the previous year. Of course, reminding himself about Dumbledore only added onto his list of confusing and perturbing thoughts. What had been so important that the headmaster tried to speak with him so immediately after the events of the Ministry? Yet, the information the man had tried to impart clearly was not _that_ important, else Harry would have been called to his office by now, surely. It was all so confusing!

Grunting his irritation some time later, the young wizard twisted violently around to lay on his side facing the main doors, only to find himself looking straight at Remus Lupin, who was peeking in through the doors of the infirmary. Startled out of his wits, but altogether glad to see a familiar face, Harry leapt up and headed straight to the man, who held his hands up to stop the teen in his tracks. The wizard instead came up to Harry, leading him back to the bed and sitting on the one next to it.

"Harry," Lupin greeted him, looking grayer and more lined than ever. "I didn’t mean to wake you. I only wanted to make sure you and the others were all right."

"I wasn’t asleep," Harry immediately corrected the assumption. "I’ve got so many things to think about that I couldn’t sleep. I think Hermione fell asleep again, though."

"We’ll be quiet then," Lupin smiled wanly, but the smile faded rapidly. "How are you, Harry?"

"Fine," was the instant reply, causing the werewolf to shake his head. The gesture made Harry feel a little sheepish. "Well, physically fine, anyway."

Nodding his understanding, Lupin reached over to pat Harry’s shoulder. “I know what you mean.”

It struck Harry very abruptly in that moment that Remus Lupin was hurting, too. He had barely gotten his best friend back after thirteen years of believing him a traitor, only to lose the man two years later. Something felt as though it were stuck in Harry’s throat of a sudden. If anyone knew what he was going through, surely Lupin did?

"I just… he was…" Harry attempted to put his thoughts into words, but fell flat. Shaking his head, he sighed his unhappiness.

"It’s hard to think of him," Lupin commiserated kindly. "Isn’t it?"

That was the second person who knew firsthand Harry’s feelings about his loss and his wish to not speak of it. He was beginning to realize just how normal it must be to feel that way. “It hurts to think his name, to remember him… I almost thought I was going to be with him when – you know…”

Lupin’s face turned alarmed, although he hid it well enough. “What do you mean, Harry? When did you think that?”

"When Voldemort possessed me in the atrium," Harry admitted, somehow feeling ready to talk about some things. With Lupin, at least. A sharp inhale was all the response Lupin had, allowing Harry to continue. "It was worse than the cruciatus curse. And I can certainly tell you about that after last year."

Fury coiled in Lupin’s eyes at the reminder, so Harry moved forward still. “He taunted Dumbledore, told him to kill us both. And I was… I could hardly concentrate on anything. It was so painful. And I thought he should do it. The pain would end and I would be… with him… with _Sirius_.”

That something that had so powerfully pulled on Harry to speak the name, to face up to it… it had come back. He could no longer ignore it. Through the pain of loss, through the grief, he felt better for saying the name. Tightness behind his eyes was all the warning Harry had before he felt tears welling up.

"Sorry," he muttered embarrassedly, trying desperately to swipe the tears away before they fell, but Lupin scoffed out loud and pulled Harry into a hug.

Face buried in the last Marauder’s shoulder, Harry finally allowed his body to tremble and tears to trail down his face.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 3: Pressure

Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any profit off of _Harry Potter_. It belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc.

A/N: To give fair warning, this series will not be completely book-based. I mean, for the most part I will be referencing the events from Books 1-5, but I am going to be adding in some elements from the movies as well. Also, I will be using the basic horcruxes/hallows ideas that JKR has in Books 6-7, but the way in which these ideas are executed will be different.

A certain important conversation in this chapter was not my favorite part to write; it was almost impossible, actually. Reason being that I loved J.K. Rowling’s version so much and it would have fit perfectly, but I didn’t want to copy/paste it. There are some phrases or arrangements of topic from the book that I used as a framework for much of the conversation, but overall I did my best to write a version that fit what needed to fit and was still original. You’ll understand which conversation when we come to it.

_**Chapter Numbering:**_  Because AO3 doesn't allow for Prefaces/Epilogues/Intermissions (which are usually not meant to be labeled "Chapter #") my numbering within the actual chapter will be different from the link AO3 displays.

> **Chapter 3: Pressure**

Harry’s tears subsided as the minutes passed, as did some tiny measure of his grief. Not enough, not by a long shot, but it was a strangely relieving feeling to have let out some of the pain to someone who understood. Lupin sat quietly with Harry, although the teenager could sense the grief radiating from the former professor as the shared emotion pulsed through them both.

After a beat of silence, in which Harry finally felt his eyes would stay dry, the embarrassment crept in for his emotional display. Catching the look on Harry’s face as he pulled back, Lupin rolled his eyes exasperatedly at the slight shame.

“There’s nothing wrong with crying, Harry,” Lupin told him firmly. “It shows how human you are. And I find that to be very encouraging.”

Harry only nodded, suddenly weighted down with the double meaning behind Lupin’s words. Being a werewolf, the ragged man felt the pull from two sides of himself and the slow decay from the constant change each full moon.

“While it seems counterproductive,” Lupin went on to say, sighing deeply from within himself, “saying the name of the ones you lose is one step in the process of healing. After your parents… I went for so long, hiding away the people I loved and refusing to discuss them. If I had only talked about them, perhaps the good memories would have built into an integral part of who I am, rather than the pain their loss perpetuated.”

Reminded of the issue he’d had with even thinking or reading Sirius name, and the release it offered when he finally said it aloud, Harry realized he could probably do exactly what Lupin said, to an extent. He still hadn’t read Professor McGonagall’s letter, after all.

Freshly determined, Harry reached down into his bag for the letter he’d carelessly stuffed in it. The page was badly rumpled, but not torn, and Harry was glad he could still read it.

“Harry?” Lupin asked concernedly. “What’s the matter?”

“Professor McGonagall’s letter,” Harry announced quietly, forgetting for a moment he had not told Lupin about the correspondence.

“Er… what?” was Lupin’s articulate response, but Harry had already begun rereading the letter.

**_Dear Harry,_ **

**_My gratitude may seem to become overzealous, but I cannot help thanking you again for taking the time to write. You, of all people, have faced the greatest woes after the incident at the Ministry. For you to take such pains to worry over another in this difficult time is a sign of your character._ **

**_In your grief, you may not want to hear the name of your godfather or even think it. It is painful, I know. I have lost loved ones, too. While it may hurt to say the name, I must do so all the same. Please forgive me if it is too much too soon._ **

Here, at the one point where the pain of losing Sirius had seemed unbearable earlier that day, Harry forced himself onward to read the rest of Professor McGonagall’s writing, no matter how much it seemed to hurt.

**_Sirius Black._ **

Once again, Harry had to stop and wait out a tidal wave of pain as he remembered his pranking, understanding godfather. But he felt a kind of movement in the wave, as though it were starting to blow past rather than continue to pound over his head and drown him. Opening his eyes, Harry pressed on.

**_Sirius was one of the most frustrating, irritating, self-assured, pig-headed students I have ever had the misfortune to teach. Every day brought some new torment from that wild, reckless boy._ **

Harry snorted to himself over that description, feeling a little badly for Professor McGonagall having to handle Sirius alone, not to mention the entire band of Marauders.

**_But I confess… Sirius was brilliant, too, as well as incredibly generous with what he had. He could be charming, when he wanted to be, and probably downright amusing if I felt in the mood for such shenanigans._ **

**_I’m sorry I believed his guilt so easily all those years ago. I tried to tell Sirius as much; I tried to apologize for blaming him so immediately. But the poor man forgave and he never held it against me. It is a crime, surely, that Sirius could only be proven innocent after his death. He deserved more than the life he was given; while he may have escaped the horrors of Azkaban, Sirius only moved into another prison. And that is more than I can stomach when I remember him so full of life._ **

Harry had to blink away the wetness in his eyes to continue reading, wishing he had known the old Sirius, too – before death and betrayal and Azkaban had stripped away who he was.

Then again, perhaps it was a blessing to never see that decay firsthand; Maybe Harry was lucky to not have such contrasting memories of his godfather to cause even more pain.

**_You, too, deserve more than the imprisonment of your relatives’ unloving home. Sirius often complained of the conditions under which you live. I wish there were more I had been able to do about the past years under the Dursleys’ roof. I assure you, however, that I will do whatever I can to change that now. I’m not entirely certain where you will go, Harry, but I refuse to let you stagnate in that household for even one more summer._ **

**_Please refrain from further correspondence at this time. (The leashes are tightening as I write.) We will talk more upon my return to Hogwarts._ **

**_Until then,_ **

**_Professor McGonagall_ **

Harry held his breath for an impossibly long moment as he finished the letter with disbelieving eyes. No more Dursleys? Could he really be reading that correctly?

Harry shook his head wildly to dispel his hope. Dumbledore would surely prevent any movement from Privet Drive, regardless the professor’s promises. Feeling grateful nonetheless that McGonagall understood and wanted to help him, Harry set the letter aside and allowed his hopes to fall away.

“Everything all right, Harry?” Lupin wondered worriedly from beside him, reaching out to grasp the teen’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded slowly, folding up the letter as neatly as he could, given its rumpled state. Pausing as he reached down to put it in his bag, Harry briefly considered the healing, however small, that reading it had given him. Finally, he offered up the letter for Lupin to read.

“Oh, Harry, I don’t need to read your private mail,” Lupin denied with a slight smile, seeming reassured and worried at the same time by Harry’s unexpected need to share.

“It might help,” Harry offered with an understanding expression, pushing the letter in front of the werewolf. “Go on, then.”

Sighing with slight reluctance, Lupin nevertheless took the letter and opened it up to read. With curiosity, Harry saw the weary lines of the man’s face both lighten and deepen according to what he read. By the time he finished reading, Lupin’s eyes had grown wet, but somehow determined.

“I don’t agree with moving you, Harry,” the werewolf said plainly, to which Harry jolted with shock, inadvertently pulling away from his parents’ old friend. While the young wizard had expected no movement to happen, he had certainly not expected Remus Lupin to disagree with the idea in the first place. “I fear Professor McGonagall may be letting her emotions over Sirius get in the way of reason at the moment.”

“Maybe that’s the right thing to do in this case,” Harry muttered angrily, moving back to the bed he had occupied before Lupin’s arrival. Turning on the older wizard, Harry said more clearly, “I don’t care. The Dursleys hate magic, they hate me, they hate my very presence. Why should it be so terrible to have me moved away from that?”

“There are other things at work here, Harry,” Lupin sighed from the depths of his chest. “But Professor Dumbledore explained all this to you.”

“Explained all what?” Harry bit out, growing to wish Lupin would leave. While they bonded over Sirius and understood what each other felt to an extent, the conversation began to make Harry’s blood boil as it had all year long. He never found out what he needed to know. Always last to know, but always first to be forcibly volunteered.

“About your staying with the Dursleys, of course,” Lupin sighed for the hundredth time, rubbing his neck uncomfortably.

“Dumbledore never said anything,” Harry argued, trying very hard to keep his temper and voice at low levels in case Umbridge attempted to listen in. “It just like this past summer, waiting for nothing.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Lupin frowned deeply, gazing at Harry in consternation. “Professor Dumbledore didn’t even talk to you about it?”

“The last I saw Dumbledore was in the atrium of the Ministry,” Harry pointed out irritably. “He handed me the golden head as a portkey and I ended up in his office. He said if he didn’t arrive in half-an-hour then I was to go to the hospital wing. And he never showed. That’s it.”

Frowning even more severely, Lupin responded, “With the ministry so chaotic, perhaps he was simply grounded for the time being. Still, that’s not really an excuse to forget this. I’ll have a word with him, Harry.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Harry mumbled darkly, sitting down on the bed and breaking eye contact with the werewolf.

A thick pause stole over the hospital wing, followed by deep sigh of resignation from Lupin.

“I’m sorry you feel like this, Harry,” The man said sadly. “But you’ll understand in time. I’ll speak with Professor Dumbledore. And I’ll see you soon, I expect.”

Harry only grunted with annoyance, not bothering to actually reply.

Another lengthy pause, another deep sigh, then Harry could hear Lupin stand up. “Good night, Harry. Try and get some sleep.”

Lupin’s steps faded away through the doors of the hospital wing, leaving Harry alone with his disgruntled thoughts for quite some time.

In the aftermath of everything fueling his brain with wakefulness, Harry never fell asleep and ended up watching the sun slowly rise through the windows of the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey looked none too pleased to see him up so early when she exited her office, but merely shook her head. After five years of him ending up in her care, Harry strongly suspected she had mostly given up trying to make him sleep when she wanted him too. Particularly after the past couple of days.

Hermione woke promptly as breakfast arrived, joining Harry in a meal of eggs, bacon, and toast which neither of them actually finished. The pressure from their compromise the previous night seemed to have driven a wedge of awkward silence between them that Harry tried very hard to break, but couldn’t bring himself speak out loud. Pushing around the remaining eggs on his plate, the young wizard attempted to think of how to begin a conversation.

Hermione had – at the very least – guessed that someone died at the Ministry. Harry felt almost certain of it. What she couldn’t have known was _who_. They’d had no visitors and when Ginny, Neville, and Luna awoke then left, Hermione was still unconscious. They’d also had no newspapers, since Madam Pomfrey wanted as close to a peaceful atmosphere as possible while Hermione and Ron still needed rest and recuperation. Not to mention Umbridge was a heck of a lot quieter without any random clicks, clacks, or clatters battering the quiet hospital wing. And outside of a nameless hint from Professor McGonagall, Hermione had no clues from him as to who it was.

That all left her with a simple guess that someone was dead.

So where did that leave him?

Holding the secret inside until Hermione was up on her feet? Until she wasn’t wincing anymore? Until she was fully recovered?

Glancing over at his bushy-haired friend and watching her peruse _Hogwarts: A History_ with her usual concentrated fascination, Harry realized in a blink that his friend was going to be full steam soon enough. At some point she would be fully well and read the newspapers, or their other friends might visit and reveal the news to her. There was no reason to keep holding back now; he never wanted Hermione to find out from anyone else but him. Harry just had to get up the guts to actively tell her the truth.

“Hermione,” he spoke in the quiet of the ward, all of his anxiety and grief coiling up madly as he gathered courage enough to continue.

His best friend glanced up at him, keen eyes collecting the clues of his expression, the pain in his gaze, the nervous twitch of his hands, and the unasked-for sullenness she already knew.

Hermione’s eyes watered suddenly, and Harry understood he was wrong.

Of course she’d know it was Sirius. Not because of Professor McGonagall’s hint, but because of Harry himself. If anyone else had died, Harry would have felt horrible, but he never would have been as depressed and sullen as Hermione made note of the previous evening.

“Oh, Harry,” the smartest witch of their year responded sadly, sympathetically. Her pity and her grief sucked all the courage straight from Harry’s gut in a split-second. He lost all the willpower to tell his best friend in plain words what he’d lost in the battle at the ministry.

“Sorry,” he croaked out. “I thought… I thought I could…”

“It’s okay, Harry,” Hermione quietly whispered, lip trembling. “You don’t have to say it.”

Shaking his head almost violently, Harry disagreed without words. Hermione knew, yes, but he needed to tell her. Yet now he couldn’t. There was something about telling his best friend that was even more painful than talking about his godfather with Lupin or reading Professor McGonagall’s letter.

“You will… Sometime you’ll be able to,” Hermione insisted understandingly, although she couldn’t fight back her tears very well.

Harry closed his eyes tightly against the wetness in them, hoping for that courage to come back to him soon.

“Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey called him tersely, causing Harry’s eyes to snap open as she came upon his sleeping space and found his meal only partially eaten. “Unfortunately, you’re finished with breakfast, which means that against my better judgment, I must send you to see the headmaster immediately.”

“He wants to see me?” Harry asked, sharing a surprised look with Hermione.

“Yes, he does,” Madam Pomfrey confirmed a touch irritably, although something in her face seemed to soften when she noticed the wetness in both teens’ eyes. “Go on, get up there before he comes here. We’ve enough visitors as it is.”

Harry nodded and hurriedly swiped at his eyes as he stood and left, Hermione’s gentle ‘good luck’ echoing in his ears all the way to the headmaster’s office. The gentle farewell contrasted vibrantly with the indignant thoughts circulating in Harry’s head on the journey there. He supposed Lupin had talked with Dumbledore as promised, and this was the result. Scowling at the idea that he was denied even the _possibility_ of leaving the Dursleys, and that Lupin thought virtual imprisonment was a good thing, Harry continued his trek with a great deal of reluctance. Didn’t the depression Sirius had felt even make an impression on his old friend?

Staying in a house where he wasn’t wanted would never be good for Harry, just as it wasn’t for Sirius. For a short second, the young man allowed himself to see Professor McGonagall arguing around Professor Dumbledore and actually convincing him to release Harry from the Dursleys’ house. But Professor McGonagall was in no condition to be arguing anything. Shaking that thought away with an agitated sigh of resignation, Harry finally stopped waffling and stepped onto the staircase leading up to the headmaster’s office.

In spite of his frustration and upset, and the overwhelming shadow of Sirius’ death looming above his head with such impossible insistence as he traveled on the moving staircase, Harry knew he wouldn’t be getting a quick answer from Dumbledore. It had never worked that way and he had no false hopes of it happening at the moment. He wished for it; he desperately wished for once that he could get an answer without a long, intensive riddle attached to it. But that was a fool’s wish, he knew.

Albus Dumbledore sat waiting behind his desk, the late morning light which poured in from outside creating an enigmatic mixture of shadows and highlights across his long silver hair and beard, leaving his clear blue eyes as bright as stars in the night sky.

“Harry. Please, sit down,” Dumbledore spoke quietly, a deep, unsettling sadness and fatigue sitting far behind his piercing gaze as Harry settled stiffly in the chair across from the headmaster. “I was happy to hear of your friends’ recovery from Madam Pomfrey. And your admirable interest in Professor McGonagall’s condition. While I realize you did not do it for my benefit, I thank you nonetheless for taking the time to support her. This is an… exceptionally trying situation.”

“She was only trying to help Hagrid,” Harry found himself saying with more calm than he had felt mere seconds before, his outrage and pain and anger with Dumbledore and Lupin and the world in general falling a bit to the wayside. Dumbledore’s concern for the Head of Gryffindor was all too genuine and Harry knew the circumstances could not have been easy to face. “Just defending an innocent person. No wand pointed at anyone. And they jumped her without even asking any questions.”

Dumbledore sighed from the depths of his chest, an emotion playing on his features Harry couldn’t name, but recognized somehow.

Given a lengthy pause to gather his words, the headmaster finally responded, “Professor McGonagall was treated atrociously. When I heard about the attack… I cannot even explain the fury I felt. She did not deserve this traumatic experience. I am grateful she has been so well cared for.”

Harry nodded in both agreement and understanding, but said nothing more. The headmaster’s last sentence seemed to be a point of closure on their current topic of conversation. Interested as both of them were in Professor McGonagall’s condition, Harry fairly well knew it was not the reason for Dumbledore’s summons.

“Now, Harry, to the real purpose of this discussion,” the headmaster pressed on quietly, intertwining his hands above the top of the desk. “Events of late have had disastrous consequences and if I am to take a share of the blame – and I do indeed own a large part of it – then I would like to have thoroughly earned it.”

Feeling left behind, Harry responded reluctantly, “I don’t understand.”

“There is so much I should have explained long ago,” Dumbledore sighed heavily again, the same exhaustion creeping through his expression. “And only now do I fully realize the amount of guilt I hold for what has happened. Had I spoken sooner on these things, so much could have been avoided.”

“I still don’t understand,” the young wizard replied, growing frustrated with Dumbledore’s constant riddles.

“Allow me to start from the beginning,” Dumbledore said instead of explaining directly. “That is to say… your scar. Everything begins with that unique and terrible mark that you are forced to live with. When it became clear that you could sense Voldemort – his presence, his emotions – and after his rebirth could see into his mind at times, I knew it would not be long before Voldemort himself realized the connection worked two ways.”

“I already know all this, Professor,” Harry tiredly stated.

“What I could not know,” Dumbledore said as if Harry had not even spoken, “was at what time that might happen. After your capability of seeing into Voldemort’s mind was revealed, I feared he might use that capability in reverse, and put you to deeds and uses you would never wish to pursue. One of my greater fears was that he might possess you, and use you to spy on me. I am sure you wondered, all this year, why I avoided you so completely?”

Lacking words, Harry simply nodded again. He had wondered that, of course, but now it seemed so inconsequential compared to the gaping loss in his life, to all that happened since the Ministry.

“I thought if I avoided you,” the silver-haired wizard went on, “I could also avoid this horrible use Voldemort could very well put you to. As it stands, he used it terribly enough to trick you into believing Sirius was at the Ministry, rather than safe at Grimmauld Place.”

“I tried to — I did what I could to get him!” Harry half-shouted, desperate to throw off some of the guilt eating away at him inside. “I tried to find Sirius! We ran to Umbridge’s fireplace and I called Grimmauld Place, but… but he wasn’t there and… Kreacher said he was gone—”

“Kreacher lied,” Dumbledore quietly intervened, leaving Harry stone silent for such a long moment he almost forgot he had the ability to speak.

“Lied?” he finally repeated, practically choking on that simple word.

“I arrived at Grimmauld Place after the others had gone, and I called for Sirius,” the older wizard continued solemnly. “Kreacher told me – laughing fit to burst – where Sirius had gone.”

“But… but he was… Why? What—” Harry could not coherently make sense of it all, numbness settling into his bones.

“Kreacher has been serving two masters since Christmas,” Dumbledore stated bluntly, for once without riddles. “Sirius said to ‘get out’ and Kreacher took it literally, returning to the only Black left living for whom he held any respect – Narcissa. Sister of Bellatrix Lestrange and wife of Lucius Malfoy. And when you called from Dolores Umbridge’s fire, Kreacher (upon the order of his second master) injured Buckbeak the Hippogriff so that when Sirius was tending to that injury, Kreacher could pretend his master was gone.”

“How do you know all of that?” asked Harry, remembering his worry when Kreacher went missing, and then reappeared in the attic so long after his disappearance.

“I myself am an accomplished Legilimens,” the headmaster answered, “and I... eh… persuaded Kreacher to tell the truth of the matter. While serving both Sirius and Narcissa, Kreacher could not reveal certain information Sirius forbade; the location of headquarters or the name of its secret keeper. He was able, however, to pass along other information of great use to Voldemort and his followers.”

“What kind of information?” Harry wondered dimly, feeling cold inside.

“The kind of information that Sirius would never have thought to forbid Kreacher from speaking of,” Dumbledore replied in kind. “Such as the fact you were the one person he cared about most in the world. The fact that you were coming to view Sirius as father and brother both, and would do anything to rescue him from danger.”

“Kreacher… was _laughing_ ,” Harry bit out, forcing back the wetness of his eyes with every ounce of his willpower.

“A house elf is a being of unrealistic and inhuman loyalties,” Dumbledore shook his head. “Just as your friend, Dobby. Kreacher’s loyalty tied to Sirius’ unholy family the way it was, only served to bring great animosity between Sirius and his new servant.”

“Sirius hated Kreacher,” Harry argued. “Like he hated that house.”

“Sirius did not hate Kreacher,” Dumbledore countered. “Kreacher was the reminder of Sirius’ childhood, and the home he hated.”

“And you made him stay there!” Harry shouted, angry all over again for the way Sirius had been forced to live. “Locked up in that house, with that elf and everything he hated. No one likes to be locked up! Like you did to me last summer!”

“I thought only to keep him safe,” the headmaster defended very weakly. “As I did with you.”

“What’s that even mean?” Harry asked aggressively, glaring at that old face for daring to be tired and weak when the teen wanted to yell and shout.

“Upon leaving you with your relatives that Halloween night,” Dumbledore responded even more quietly than before, “I knew what I was condemning you to. Ten long, dark, difficult years in that house. Yet I knew also that the safest protection I could grant you was under the Dursley’s roof. Under the roof of your mother’s last living relative – her sister, Petunia."

“She doesn’t care about me,” Harry denied. “She’s _never_ cared about me.”

“But she gave you space in her house,” said Dumbledore firmly. “Voldemort may have shed your mother’s blood, but in doing so he enacted the very power which protected you from him. As long as you may yet call home the place where your mother’s blood resides, the charm I placed on you as a baby will keep you safe. Petunia knew this, from the letter I wrote her and left with you on her doorstep. My plan for your safety worked perfectly to that point, so perfectly.”

“You—Wait… you were the one…” Harry spoke hesitantly, “you sent that howler _. Remember my last_ …”

“I felt that Petunia might need reminding of her part in your safety,” Dumbledore admitted calmly. “The attack from the dementors surely showed her how dangerous it was to have you under her roof.”

“It did,” Harry confessed. “They nearly threw me out. Uncle Vernon, at least. Then your howler came and Aunt Petunia said they couldn’t, that I had to stay.”

“Once more, my plan worked so well,” the professor sighed with heavily-veiled dismay. “Such an excellent plan to keep you safe from harm. But so heavily flawed in the subtlest of ways.”

“What are you saying?” the young wizard asked, confused.

“Can you not see it?” Dumbledore questioned him. “The flaw in my great plan? Ah, but then it is subtle, as I said. I told you already that I should have said a great many things a long time ago. In your first year, so young at a mere eleven years old and yet having proven yourself in the most admirable of ways, you asked me why Voldemort wanted to kill you as a baby. I deigned not to answer. Too young, I felt. You deserved to live yet longer in your victory and really live your young life without the burdens I held inside. And so your second year arrived and once again it ended with you victorious over Voldemort. Another year, another chance to explain the great question we had so minutely avoided. But twelve is not so much older than eleven, is it? Too young, still. Do you see yet, Harry? Do you see the great flaw in my most excellent plan?”

Harry had no idea what the headmaster was driving at, a blank look crossing his face.

“Still not clear, then?” said Dumbledore understandingly. “Well, then, third year came and went. You faced so many more challenges, and it became all the more difficult to avoid the truth which must be revealed. Still I denied it. Too young, always too young, but growing older. I knew soon you would have to know. Then at fourteen you lived through such an experience as to leave you broken by more than disappointment. Should I have told you then?”

Harry could not answer, still confused what point all of this led to.

“Yes, I should have...” the older wizard answered his own question in a murmur. “Except for the fact you had lived through so much and I could not bear to throw further burdens upon your heavy shoulders. Now, here we stand. Five years later and only after you have lost so much do I finally attempt to reveal what should have been revealed to you at the age of eleven. Do you not see now, Harry, why I could not speak? The flaw in that perfect plan?”

Shaking his head in lasting confusion, Harry waited with ongoing silence.

“I cared too much,” was the simple reply, laced so strongly with regret Harry could almost taste it on the air. “You, who have lived through so much pain and loss, you who have faced Voldemort not once, not twice, but now four times – and lived to tell the tale. I could not bring myself to cause more suffering in your young life. I dare anyone who has watched you so long and so closely – seen you suffer as you have, year after year – to wish for anything but your safety and happiness; disregarding even the lives of thousands who might die in the unseen future just so you might have peace in the here and now.”

Swallowing back the quick response he might have given, the heat he felt because he had been kept so much in the dark over the past five years, Harry kept himself quiet.

“I cared so much that I allowed you to remain in ignorance of the truth,” the headmaster added more softly and sadly. “So far ignorant of it that you had no idea Voldemort would use your connection to feed false visions of the only father figure you have ever known being tortured, and draw you in the Department of Mysteries to retrieve the one thing the Dark Lord could not – the prophecy. So Voldemort gave you your worst fear on a silver platter, and knew you would surely do whatever it took to save your godfather from the vision you saw. It was not the possession I envisioned, but it was a form of possession I nonetheless feared for you.”

Harry’s throat closed up on him so tightly he feared it would never reopen. All of his fears, all of his worries, about Sirius were the very reasons he had lost him in the end.

“This fear of possession was the very reason I asked Professor Snape to teach you occlumency. You needed to be able to close your mind against Voldemort’s attacks, to deny him the ability to fill your mind with these kinds of false visions.”

“It didn’t work,” Harry immediately returned, furious pain chewing through him. “I never practiced. I didn’t want to close my mind; I wanted to know more, instead of being in the dark again. Then Snape threw me out. Sirius and Lupin both told me I absolutely _had_ to keep learning occlumency, but Snape would never have taught me again.”

“I am afraid I underestimated the capacity for some wounds to heal,” Dumbledore added with a sigh. “I fear Professor Snape was never able to distance himself from the feelings he held towards your father.”

“It just felt worse every time he tried to force lessons on me,” Harry ground out. The very memory of those times, and of the way Snape goaded Sirius, mixed with the grief and sickening guilt rocketing through the very marrow of his bones, infuriated Harry into nearly shouting, “How do I know he didn’t try and weaken me? To let Voldemort get in my head?”

“I trust Severus Snape,” Dumbledore said calmly, but with certainty.

Fuming still at the times he spent in the dungeons, forced to relive his memories – good and bad – in sight of a man who hated him and his father and his godfather, Harry didn’t reply.

“Professor Snape was the one who contacted Sirius – after your cryptic warning – so as to ascertain his location,” the headmaster continued to explain, seeming to feel this trust in Snape was of utmost importance. “And after you failed to return from the Forbidden Forest, he alerted the Order that you likely still believed Sirius to be in danger from Voldemort and most probably headed to the Ministry to free your godfather. Professor Snape warned Sirius to remain at Grimmauld Place, but like all men of action and courage, Sirius refused to stay behind while his loved ones were in danger.”

Harry had no reason to consider this anything of significant importance. Much as Dumbledore wanted him to concede on Snape’s trustworthiness, Harry refused to put his faith in the man who hated his father even years after his death; the man who constantly goaded Sirius for blame he did not deserve from the world at large, and who (from a perspective of vengeance) forced Remus Lupin out of a nigh impossible-to-find job.

“You understand now, why I take part in the blame for Sirius’ death,” Dumbledore concluded, more fatigue crossing his old features. “And why I will finally answer the question you asked five years ago.”

Taking another long moment to steel himself, the professor rose from his seat behind the desk and spoke anew, “Sixteen years ago, I settled myself in a room above the bar at the Hog’s Head, interviewing an applicant for the position of Divination professor. Until such time, I had been content to let the subject die out, but this person was descended of the famed seer, Cassandra Trelawney, and I thought it only a curiosity to see if the talent had followed her bloodline.”

“Professor Trelawney,” Harry determined with ease.

“Yes,” Dumbledore nodded. “Disappointment followed my curiosity, for I could see she had no talent as her predecessor. But as I thanked her, informed her of her unsuitability for the position, and stood to leave… I was caught off my guard.”

So saying, the professor walked over to the dark cabinet beside baby Fawkes’ perch, pulling out the pensieve in which Harry had seen Snape tormented by the Marauders.

From the liquid inside the large dish, Dumbledore stirred up the memory of his choice, a figure dressed in shawls and draping fabric with bug-like glasses rising from the surface.

In harsh tones Harry remembered from his third year, the figure of Professor Trelawney spoke.

_“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”_

In silence, complete and utter, Harry and Dumbledore stood staring at the pensieve. Dumbledore lost in thoughts Harry could not imagine and Harry himself shell-shocked and lost in what he had seen yet only half understood.

“Professor…” he spoke in the quietest voice he had yet used. “What… what did all of that mean?”

Looking back to him with grimly focused eyes, Dumbledore responded, “It means that a boy born at the end of July nearly sixteen years ago – to parents who already escaped the Dark Lord three times – is the only one with the chance of permanently defeating Lord Voldemort.”

“Does it mean… me?” he asked reluctantly, dreading the answer he expected.

“What makes this prophecy so strange, Harry,” Dumbledore deflected slightly, “is that you are one of _two_ boys born at the end of July nearly sixteen years ago, whose parents escaped Voldemort on three separate occasions. The second boy… is Neville Longbottom. Had events turned differently, Neville might very well have been the boy in the prophecy.”

“What do you mean, if events turned differently?” Harry demanded weakly. “Either of us could be—It’s not clear which one it—it—”

“Harry, Harry,” the headmaster interrupted kindly, understandingly, “had Neville been the boy, he would have been marked as the equal of Lord Voldemort, as the prophecy states. You, Harry Potter, not Neville Longbottom, were marked by the Dark Lord himself when he attempted to kill you as a baby. Thus, leaving you as the only person alive who has the chance to defeat him for good.”

“Why?” Harry argued confusedly. “Why not wait until we were older and see who was the more dangerous of us? Why would Voldemort attack _me_? I still don’t understand!”

“Voldemort only heard the beginning of the prophecy,” Dumbledore explained. “In the middle of Professor Trelawney’s foresight, an interloper was revealed and thrown out of the Hog’s Head. But at the point which they were removed, they had only heard that a boy would be born at the end of July to parents who escaped Voldemort three times. So he chose you – the half-blood like he is; he saw in you the power he knew in himself and feared your potential. Armed with a lack of complete information, Lord Voldemort could not have known that to attack you would be to give you power to defeat him.”

“But I don’t have… I don’t _have_ any power to defeat him!” Harry exclaimed desperately, bewildered by the fate laid down before him. “What power could I possibly have?”

“Love, Harry,” said Dumbledore gently. “Love.”

Struck mute and numb, Harry could find nothing to say or think; his throat closed in on itself, and he turned to rush through the unlocked door before Dumbledore could speak anything further, the light of the late afternoon shining across the threshold as he crossed it.

Only after leaving the place he had dreaded entering – and the revelations it unearthed – did Harry realize how much he had talked about Sirius. It was the most he had talked since losing his godfather at the Ministry. Granted, he had been raging mad at the time and barely thinking anything through as his anger at everything reigned, coalescing with his grief in a painful way.

Fighting back the tears that threatened him, Harry rushed back to the hospital wing in the hopes of talking with Hermione again. She had been so considerate. More than usual, he decided, and while it frightened him away it also welcomed him in.

To his surprise upon returning to the hospital wing, Hermione was no longer alone and no longer the only one awake. Ginny, Neville, and Luna had scrambled onto all the beds they’d occupied inbetween Ron and Hermione days before, and at the end of the line Harry got another surprise.

“Ron,” Harry said quietly, surprised by his other best friend’s wakefulness.

“Hiya, Harry,” Ron greeted him a bit dazedly, but looking rather coherent in most respects. “Guess I’ve missed a bit.”

“Yeah, I guess you have,” the dark-haired teen answered, unable to smile even at the sight of both his best friends awake and on the road to recovery now that such a weight settled in the pit of his stomach.

“I told him how everyone’s doing all right now,” Hermione replied instead, and Harry had the distinct impression she’d had firm words with everyone except Ron about some of the touchier subjects of the Ministry battle. Whether that was for Harry’s sake or Ron’s or both, the dark-haired teen could not be certain, but he was glad of it. After the conversation he’d just had, he didn’t want to talk about the Ministry again.

“That’s good,” Harry nodded vaguely, taking a seat by Hermione as he had done the past few days while he addressed their three visiting friends. “Feeling better?”

“I’m doing well,” Luna smiled in her dreamy way, a copy of her father’s newspaper stuck under one arm. “Daddy’s so pleased at how well the Quibbler is doing.”

“Ginny? Neville?” Harry prompted, strangely nervous about their responses.

“I’m better,” Ginny shrugged, although she looked like something distracted her. “My ankle doesn’t bother me much.”

“We’re all good, Harry,” Neville rounded out the replies, and he truly did look very well now. “Madam Pomfrey did what she always does and set us straight. What about you? Ron and Hermione we already know about.”

“I’m fine,” Harry answered flatly. “No injuries. Madam Pomfrey let me stay for Ron and Hermione, mostly.”

“It’s just too bad we’re all stuck with _her_ ,” Ron said with disgust, eyes settled across the room on Umbridge’s seemingly resting form. Harry didn’t trust it, but at least she wasn’t saying anything.

“At least she isn’t talking,” Hermione echoed his thoughts to a tee, making Harry start. Many times Hermione was right on cue like that with his thoughts, even if there had been times in the past that Harry didn’t want to admit it.

“I think we have an answer for that, don’t we Hermione?” Harry couldn’t help commenting with the ghost of grin peeking through.

Hermione hid a laugh behind her hand, leading their four friends to stare in confusion.

“What are you two hiding?” Ron wondered suspiciously, matched perfectly by Ginny’s shrewd gaze.

“Watch,” Harry said quietly, pulling his wand to hold out over the floor and then dropping it with a long, clattering clamor that sent Umbridge shooting up in bed with a shriek. The six of them dropped into heavily muffled snickering as Madam Pomfrey rushed out with an exasperated expression to reluctantly subdue her frenzied patient.

“Really, Professor Umbridge, there are no centaurs in this ward!” Madam Pomfrey assured the vile woman with a scowl of immense proportions.

This sent the six teens into another fit of snickering until the mediwitch finally calmed Umbridge down.

“So that’s what happened when I dropped that spoon,” Ron quietly wondered in pleasant surprise.

“You three, out, out!” Madam Pomfrey bore down on them with as much quiet frustration as possible, waving Ginny, Neville, and Luna away from them. “You’ve caused enough trouble in my ward, so get back to your dormitories.”

Neville scrambled to his feet nervously while Ginny and Luna rose at a much slower pace. Ginny because of her ankle and Luna because… well, because she was Luna. Madam Pomfrey actually followed them to the main doors and shooed them out like pests.

“Well, that was a short visit,” Ron commented like his old self, settling further into his pillows.

“It took some of the morning and most of the afternoon!” Hermione corrected him indignantly, also more like her old self.

“Didn’t feel that way, though, did it?” Ron countered with a shrug, yawning already. “Harry wasn’t even there for most of it. Missed lunch, too.”

Hermione looked even more irritated, opening her mouth to say more, but Harry grabbed her hand to forestall her. Rounding on him with an agitated expression, the bushy-haired girl glanced over his face and softened almost imperceptibly.

“Not now. Please?” he asked softly, sick of arguments after what he’d talked about with Dumbledore that morning. Already that discussion weighed on him heavily. Yelling and shouting didn’t assuage any of Harry’s pain, nor did it change what had happened. It just made him feel out of control.

Sitting back silently, Hermione kept her thoughts to herself as requested, squeezing Harry’s hand in agreement. Harry glanced over out of habit to see Ron’s response to such unusual silence, but instead of surprise or shock, Harry found his best mate looking especially unhappy about something.

“What is it, Ron?” Harry questioned confusedly.

“Nothing,” Ron mumbled more to himself than to Harry, rolling to the side away from his best friends and pulling the covers up over his shoulders.

Sharing a very bewildered look with Hermione, Harry tried to figure what had happened to make Ron so glum of a sudden. Neither of them had any inkling, it seemed, and they both settled for letting Ron go to sleep without questioning. Not long after, the redheaded boy did indeed fall asleep, his usual snores echoing quietly in the otherwise silent ward.

“What was that about?” Hermione finally inquired curiously. “He was perfectly fine a minute before, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he was,” Harry agreed uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” Hermione sighed resignedly. “Maybe he’s just… still recovering?”

Her tone was hopeful, but in vain; they both could tell it wasn’t what was bothering their mutual friend. They knew better than that after five years with Ron Weasley.

“I guess we’ll only know if he blows up on us,” Harry shrugged nonchalantly. It was par the course, really, to have Ron suddenly burst with whatever bothered him.

“I hope not,” said Hermione with a frown, finally slipping down beneath her blankets with a sigh.

Harry said nothing more on the subject, fairly certain Ron would not be explaining anytime soon, and slipped back to his own bed with a million thoughts crowding the space of his brain. Sirius constantly pervaded his mind, bringing the same maelstrom of grief back to haunt Harry, along with the absolute confusion and chaos of Dumbledore’s many revelations. But the one thing which struck Harry the most was not as obvious to discern. Having conversed with Professor Dumbledore about so much, and still come away feeling so drained and lost, the young wizard wished he could talk to someone. Someone who had lived through things like losing their only real remaining family. Someone who would care and understand. Someone like a parent.

His parents, however, were dead and gone.

All three of them.

Lupin had come and gone, his advice and comfort rich yet fleeting – tempered with the awful feeling of being trapped without a hand to pull him up.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had always been kind and understanding, but Harry felt a distance when it came to discussing Sirius and he certainly could never feel right burdening them with the prophecy he now had to live with.

Who else was there?

Turning uncomfortably onto his right side, Harry steeled himself against more tears. He was sick to death of crying, but it was the only response he seemed to have left inside. Looking around himself for some kind of distraction, the young man’s eyes fell on the only thing he had left nearby – Professor McGonagall’s letter, neatly folded just in the top of his bag.

Stilling his fidgety movements, Harry stared for five whole minutes at the letter which had appeared so painful at first, but in fact helped him to move past a part of his grief, however small it had seemed.

With a deep breath, Harry reached down and plucked the letter from his bag, careful not to tear it.

Opening it again, the young wizard reread it from beginning to end; he stopped several times, unable to keep up the emotional response it created in him. Feeling the hesitation creep in every other sentence, Harry finally decided he would read the letter until he could do it without stopping.

Come dinner time, Harry had accomplished his task. Not a single word made him pause or hesitate, and he felt grateful to Professor McGonagall for giving him such a tool to work with. Only problem was, Harry had allowed his grief to pool in him as he read and remembered his godfather.

“Harry,” came a whisper from his left, and he turned to find Hermione gazing at him in pure worry, biting her lip.

“Yeah?” he asked blankly.

“Are you all right?” Hermione whispered still, eyeing the letter in his hand with anxiety.

Thinking for a long moment about how to answer her question, Harry came to the realization that if he was all right, he wouldn’t have to think about it so hard

“No,” he admitted bluntly, forcing his fingers to remain lax enough to avoid crushing the letter from his Head of House. “I’m not all right.”

“Harry,” she whispered, pained by his uncommonly blatant honesty about his feelings.

“He’s gone, Hermione,” Harry blurted in a cracked whisper, feeling a single tear make the trek down his face.

“Sirius is gone.”

Harry’s eyes suddenly overflowed and Hermione muffled a sob in her bedclothes, scrambling to reach his hand across the space between their beds.

Sometime after midnight, Harry eventually fell asleep, tracks of tears dried on his face and his best friend’s comforting hand keeping him grounded through the night.

* * *

 

 


End file.
